


Rear View

by ibreatheakaashi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, One Night Stands, Slow Build, Smoking, basically oikawa is poor college student and they hook-up, college student! Oikawa, media star! Iwaizumi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibreatheakaashi/pseuds/ibreatheakaashi
Summary: “Don’t you have papers to sign or something?” Tooru utters, blowing the hair that fell into his face out his vision.He shrugs, twirling his index finger into the now empty glass, “it’s a Friday night.”“Or ladies waiting to get a taste of Iwaizumi Hajime?” he says with disgust and doesn’t attempt to hide the anger in his voice.He knows that Hajime heard the distaste in his mouth, but like a gentleman, only nonchalantly laughs.---Oikawa is a diligent, practically broke college student, working to pays his loans, halfway across New York is Iwaizumi Hajime, miserable of his parent's legacy. after an unfated hook-up, they not only grow welcomed to the good sex but each other's company.





	1. can your heart search in mine?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, welcome back. I've been working on this au for a bit, editing and shaping down the idea, i really hope you enjoy. inspired by the song Rear View by Zayn Malik

 

The billboards on the highway’s and sloped streets were nothing unerring to Tooru. They were plastered all along the avenue that Tooru passed by every day to and from work. Sometimes, on Tuesdays, and Thursdays the jumbotrons changed from their neon flashy advertising of the daily million dollar lottery that people were so addicted to, he never understood that. The population of New York seemed to be addicted to spending up to twenty dollars every day towards a machine that gobbles up their money, with an only a slim chance that they’ll ever get their money back. It was another of society’s cruel and tantalizing schemes to steal all of their fortunes.

In Times Square at night, the fluorescent colors flickered on the blacked paved concrete that vehicles drove over every day, and advertised Burberry watches that were too expensive for his wallet. The gold bezel exterior of the wristwatch danced along the large open-boutique shops with wide glass panels. The mannequins of J.Crew paled inside, reflecting on the transparent wall. Tooru could never imagine wearing the lavish clothing, tugging on his dark grey overcoat, that was given to him by a friend a while ago. His black semi-rimmed glasses obscured on his face, balanced on his nose. New York in the winter was the coldest temperatures in the seasons, Tooru shivers. He pulls on the collar of the coat, hugging his chin down to relish the heat from the soft material of his jacket.

The streets at this time were busy, it was well after New Year’s, remaining snow from nights previously still persistent on sticking to the roads. The salt from the snowplows clogging on the bottom of his faux leather suede boots. Unfortunately, the ones he had decided to wear, had zero friction, and Tooru happens to be on the icy parts of the sidewalks. The lens hovering over his eyes was freezing up, and his eyesight was growing foggy. He huffs in annoyance, stopping to wipe off the fog, staring up at the crowded sight. Taxi’s hooted, swerving into lanes, the stoplights turning red. His cheeks pinkened at the chilled air, and Tooru walks with the herd of chattering people along the crosswalk to the intersection of the busy roads. He followed them, shoving his hands in his coat pockets, fingers staying toasty.

The jumbotrons flashed a new advertisement in the blink of an eye, a Ralph Lauren commercial shows, and Tooru has to blink twice before his eyes can adjust to the sudden brightness. The picture switched to LG ad, but the man on the largest screen in New York City was familiar to Tooru. Not like a friend exactly, but if you didn’t know who Iwaizumi Hajime was, you’d have to be living underneath a rock.

The son of the founder of the empire ‘Iwaizumi Industries’, they have sites all over central New York, sky-high buildings that were almost as tall as the empire state building, with almost fifty floors and not that Tooru hasn’t passed by them on the way to the university, they’re everywhere. Iwaizumi Daisuke, the man behind the reason why the stock market is always high, companies crave to buy from his companies, maybe even make a business deal while they’re at it. Everyone knows the Iwaizumi family, Iwaizumi Kaede, the foreign model on all the covers of Vanity Fair(so what, maybe Tooru had a few laying magazines in his apartment.) Her caramel skin, and luscious brown hair, he remembered reading in an interview that she was half Latina, and her father was Japanese, that would explain her slim feminine features.

Then the Iwaizumi playboy brothers were all the city could ever waste their breath talking about. It aggravated Tooru to hear of their precious fortunes on the morning news, on the large jumbotrons that he never fails to see, on the subway to the upper east side, where all the snob crowd at Saks fifth avenue hang out at . Their painfully irresistible faces winking at the partygoers on the screens that were displayed as you took the escalators up and down the third floor. A five-year difference, the eldest, alumni from Harvard Law school, engaged to a famous model from Britain. Their similarities were clear, when they were featured in photo shoots together, the same height, and it brings Tooru joy to know that he’s taller than them both. emerald eyes, though the younger of Iwaizumi brothers had more hazel than green eyes, marking the distinct difference. And it Tooru didn’t go around reading every magazine or article that the Wall Street Journal and New York Times liked to highlight the family in.

Tooru despised them, for their overwhelming wealth, and crappy attitude to their status. Or he was just biased to the father, he snapped away from the tearing lights around the corner. His eyes were beginning to weigh, the illumination around him tiring him out. With eyes torn away from the screens, he makes his way to his final destination. When he enters, the small jingle of the door raises no alerts of his entrance, and he continues to the counter, where his boss sats, legs crossed over the other, smoking a cigarette as if there’s no restriction policy.

“Sorry, I’m late.” Tooru burst out, and Ukai stares at him from his week-old newspaper and laughs with the end of the cigar sticking out of his mouth.

“You’re twenty minutes early kid, business doesn’t start until 9.” Ukai says, flickering the light to the butt of his cigarette, as the smoke weaves into Tooru’s face and he tries his best not to cough.

“Let me at least start wiping down tables,” he begs, face distorted into hope. And the old man sighs, throwing him an apron.

“Get to work, those tables won’t clean with Clorox themselves.” he quickly changes into the standard uniform- white button down, and black slacks.

Tooru snatches the bucket from the corner of the storage room, and starts scrubbing the tables with the soapy water in the bucket. Soon enough, customers pour through, tables are cleaned as fast as people take their seat in them. It was intriguing to observe the customers that Ukai gets, he sees the usuals. The one man who comes in wearing the same armani wristwatch and blue suit. Tooru’s served him a couple time when he’s on the bar shift. A rusty nail on these nights, and the occasional martini when he has company. The couple sitting in the wide booth he had recently wiped down, sat dangerously close, in their hands were a Gin and tonic, and Tooru sniffled at their bold choice in beverage.

His co-workers shift is over, as he takes over the counter. Giving a flirtatious smile to a nearby customer, he shakes the ice in stainless cocktail shaker, pouring out the Sangria in the signature mason jars stored above the champagne glasses. With his best smile, he slides the alcoholic drink towards the woman, as she lends her prettiest smile. When she leaves, she slips a gracious tip underneath the pleather coaster, and Tooru stuffs it into the front pocket of his apron.

“Have a good evening!” he chirps out, sweeping the floor with the nearest broom.

The sound of the jingle of the front door, alerts of a new customer, and Tooru doesn’t take his eyes off the floor. He hears the heavy footsteps, as they seat themselves right where Tooru was sweeping. The speaker system above his head, and the t.v panels in every corner of the restaurant. The atmosphere was loud, and he forces himself to stand up and take the next customer. Tooru’s confused to why the bar is hushed, no sudden movement mad, everyone focused on the sight in front of him, and he understands why. He’s what they say in the interviews, considering he’s currently sitting, his broad shoulders accented by the evening suit that he wears. Tooru knows its Valentino, the beige lapels crisp, he recognizes the Burberry cufflinks, their everywhere in downtown Manhattan. The midnight Stefano Ricci silk tie is worth thousands of dollars, and Tooru wants to rip it right off his neck.

“What can I get for you?” he says icily, breaking the silence in the room, and the clamorous buzz carries on.

Hajime takes off the Tom Ford tinted sunglasses, what kind of person wears those out at night? Iwaizumi Hajime. He carefully folds them delicately, placing them in the crease of his button up. The first two buttons are open, teasing a measurable quantity of exposed skin, a pretty dark tan shade. He lives up to his reputation, his rugged chin, small stubbles faded along the strong jaw that spotted along the jawbone, the silver stud earrings were worn in each earlobe were true. They weren’t overly obvious, or snobby-looking and fitted his complex well, only one stud resided in his ear. Tooru noticed the ongoing stares that approached them, as Hajime scrunches his eyes, heedless to ogling of his presence.

“A whiskey sour.” his tone expressionless, undeterred by Tooru’s cold tone.

“Sure you want that? You don’t seem like the type,” he taunts, unable to contain the bitterness in his pseudo humor regarding the opulent man.

Hajime grins, unfazed by Tooru’s baiting, “and what is my type?” his elbows dipping onto the counter, seated pulled closer.

Taking the tall glass of whiskey stored behind him, where the base alcoholic liquid stand, he pours into an old-fashioned clear glass without any intricately carved patterns. The sour mix goes in, with the sugar, colder tap water, and lemon juice into the other refreshments, dumping the ice cubes gently into the whiskey. Tooru stirs, letting the silence between them settle in slowly. He bends over to take out the cherries from the closest mini refrigerator, ripping the fruit off from the joined stems, and it plops into the drink. He pushes it until it’s directly preceding Iwaizumi. He takes out a 1950’s antique coaster that Ukai lies around the counter, lifting the whiskey sour to slide it underneath the sweating beverage.

“A godfather cocktail if you’re feeling bold, but a Corona is definitely what you would order,” he says, locking eyes into Hajime’s amused ones.

“Your knowledge of alcoholic drinks is credible.” he hums, taking a sip at his drink, his face untwisted at the extra sour mix he’d added to the drink.

“I am a bartender.” Tooru snorts, rubbing the rim of the highball glass he’s holding a bit too hard.

“Credibility is important, especially when serving customers.” he wanted to smother the teasing businessmen.

“Don’t you have papers to sign or something?” Tooru utters, blowing the hair that fell into his face out his vision.

He shrugs, swirling his index finger into the now empty glass, “it’s a Friday night.”

“Or ladies waiting to get a taste of Iwaizumi Hajime?” he says with disgust and doesn’t attempt to hide the anger in his voice.

He knows that Hajime heard the distaste in his mouth, but like a gentleman, only nonchalantly laughs.

“So you do know who I am.” and Tooru rolls his eyes, ignoring the comment.

While Tooru quietly makes him a second round, knowing that he’s probably got a lot of cash stacked in that Bottega Veneta wallet of his, so he prepares him another drink without asking. He spys on him, while mixing the contents. He can’t help but stare at his eyes. Their just like the magazine had informed, his eyes were more of a hazel, darker than his brother’s. With the moody fixture above Iwaizumi, they look like the rich whiskey color that fills his glass. Lustered dimming opaque lighting dancing on his pupils, and Tooru can’t help but study his exotic semblance. the lights playing tricks on his eyes, his gaze wanders down following the fitted suit that blatantly preserves the better edge of his appearance. He seems remotely unguarded by his background, he was expecting a gaudier, less respectful. He also can’t help but think about how like every other woman in the city, how much he wanted to sleep with him. The thought strikes him suddenly, and Tooru buries the idea and beats it with a stick. However, the broad smile on Hajime’s face entails that he’s thinking along the same lines.

“What makes you assume that I’m looking to mess around?” his brows raise, thick and arched, clearly questioning him.

Airly, Tooru offers a simple answer, “no one orders a whiskey on a Friday night unless they’re looking to get laid.”

Iwaizumi barks out a laugh, leaning close, hands splayed on the counter and he leans in close. Tooru is compelled to point his chin up, and face him, he locks his hard gaze, unable to turn away, if he does then he loses. It was a little bet their gambling, as Hajime nears him, Clive Christian coats his neck. Tooru could smell the orange and cardamom scent of the expensive fragrance, it’s a musty, earthy and amorous, as he inhales the aroma. His hands linger around the cuff of Hajime’s collar, fingers grazing the upper collarbone. It’s a war, and so far Tooru is winning. He gets dangerously close to his face, wrist expertly flicking the next button, stopping at the start of his chest.

“Is that an offer?” Hajime asks lowly, the tension in the air could cut like a knife.

Tooru blinks, once, then twice, before filling in space between them. He’s contiguously close to him, and he could hear the steady breathing adjacent of him. Smelling like Colgate toothpaste and whiskey, with just a tint of the residual lemon that’s faded long ago. He’s in too deep, and Iwaizumi knows it too, as he smiles his widest. Eventually, he gives Tooru some room, as his cheeks embellish into a nice rosy pink color. The moment is over, as Hajime takes a sip of the now sweating, and possibly watered down drink as if nothing had happened just seconds ago.  
“My shift ends at ten, I can get off in twenty minutes.” Tooru managed to croak out, clearing his voice. Hajime straightens out his tie, smoothing out the creases that Tooru had made.

He returns to his surly, unperturbed self, taking another sip of the alcohol. The water leaks down to the bottom of the glass, dribbling onto the coaster, and Tooru forces his eyes to divert from Iwaizumi.

“Perfect.” he says, teeth widen open, and Tooru regrets what he’s about to get himself into.

 

*

Sitting at the bar of a well-crowded part in New York City this late in the nighttime was not one of the ideas Iwaizumi had in mind when his brother told him to ‘live a little’. He had no mask, no bodyguards at his side, he was out in the throng of people who damn right knew who the hell he was. His face on the cover of the jumbotron screen right across from Times Square, right where he sat. The Burberry ad popping up every so often. God, he really hated that photoshoot, and much like the rest, while the pay was well but it only made the Iwaizumi name more illustrious. Kaito loved the fame, the fortune, being deluged by his family’s wealth. It was nice, the Dolce and Gabbana, the Armani, Burberry, all of it. And he wore it well, clearly if the brand companies are making millions off of the suits that he stiffly donned. Iwaizumi drowned in his family’s fame and desperately wanted to seek out of it. The subject was untouchable to speak of, though he believed that father had some sense of what Hajime coveted.

The bar was adequately subtle, task lighting rounded in a circle aloft. The eccentric lights giving off just the right dosage luminosity in the dark background. In every bar, accompanied to the built-in shelves are rows and rows of alcoholic drinks in their own individual bottle, with ornate patterns. The valuable antique framed on the wall, black and white photographs, balanced symmetrical along all of the panels separating each enclosed space. The busy waiters hustled as people filled the leather seats, and soon the counter bar stools were occupied. His eyes steer away from his surroundings and focus on the man in front of him.

Only minutes ago had they flirted shamelessly, and had promised him an offer that he couldn’t resist. Hajime detects that Tooru’s aware of contemplating at the miniscule observations Hajime’s making in his head as the brunette turns his head in his direction. His eyes were a heavy chocolate color, similar to the Teuscher chocolates that his mother sets out for guests at housewarming parties. Tender, gooey, with a hard melting shell. Flicks of amber in the outer pupils, and he can admire the fire in his eyes as the light frolic around the caramel irises. From the rosy dimples that inhabit the corner of his cheeks dip into the soft curves of his face. He wasn’t petite, regardless of the willowy-like frame, concave shoulders fitted into the plain evening shirt, tucked into chinos. His smile was genuine, considering the horrendous attitude that he gave to Hajime. It seemed that the bartender was popular with the customers, making small talk, laughing as one of the clients makes a joke. His slender face compresses, eyes brightening, sweat peeking from the hairline. To Hajime, he looks incredulously attractive, and he discovers that he’s pitifully staring at him like an owner to a dog. God, he’s so screwed, isn’t he?

Usually, Hajime’s type ranged. Being a well-known playboy, while being respectful and the best gentleman he could be, he liked petite girls, the ones with pretty smiles, and dimples in their cheeks. Has the ability to cook would be a good addition, but hell, he’s been with so many girls, and guys to sort out and finally unearth what his type was. Lately, he’s been seeking out the ones that make him leave the next morning. Now, it wasn’t that they were bad, but lately all the people he’s slept with he’s sick of. Kaito was the same, a ladies-man in high school, up until college. Then when he met Megan, the American blonde with extensions and a bust, he stopped. Hajime’s met her a couple times when he’s dragged to the annual family gathering. She’s nice enough, makes a lot of money, and fake almost like the rest of them.

It happens that the bartender in front of him is everything he wants, maybe he’s just desperate for a good meaningless one-night stand, but he didn’t give a shit as of right now. He hasn’t asked for his name, but from the stormy grey plastic name tag on his apron that read Oikawa Tooru on the badge, he doesn’t ask. Oikawa does look about his age, a college student at one of the nearby campuses? The strange curiosity appeals towards the flirty stranger whose only known for less than an hour.

Hajime sits, as he converses with the crowd. How didn’t his appearance affect the boy at all? Most would be jumping at the opportunity to meet or even be in be in the sights of someone like Iwaizumi Hajime, not to sound too rich. Only, nor did he offer the opinion that Iwaizumi was too weak for the alcoholic beverage that he chose, but that believed what all the stories say, but then that only could mean that Oikawa actually did know who he was.

At ten, precisely on the dot, Tooru’s shift is over. He disappears to the back of the bar, returning into casual clothes that he must’ve come in. He’s quiet after waves to the waiter who takes over his shift, following him out of the bar. When he exits out, Tooru grins, breathing deeply, exhaling all air from his lungs. His hair twinkles in the night, glitter at the tips of his coiffed curls on his head. The wind takes a hit of the brown corkscrews, as Tooru squawks, smoothing down the evasive curls.

“Where’s the limo?” Tooru spins around, quizzically. Baiting him into humility, but Hajime only laughs.

“Were already here.” and across the street was one of the empire hotels that his father spent years and years piling all the savings to build.

And it paid off, the crystal windows, in rows like a box around the whole exterior. Gray concrete holding the foundation, a presentable view from here. The illuminated rounded lights made it behold as a majestic castle. The top roof with a full patio, the upstairs and downstairs accessible pool. The moon descending on the foreground behind the hotel, outlining the whole building. Tooru’s wide speechless gaze told that he was impressed.

They walk across the street, as the doorman greets him, and Hajime firmly shakes the man’s hand. Mr. Kobayashi was a good friend of his mothers, working at the hotel for years now. Walking past the receptionist, with a nod, they take the elevator, as Tooru fails to catch up. Clearly, he’s never been surrounded in the atmosphere, the smell of the grill cooking from the snack bar, sizzling near them. Below them, everything’s small. Ladies in Saint Laurent's dress gowns and Cartier bracelets, like the silver, dazzles against the glass elevator.

“This is all too much.” he hears Tooru mutters, as the bypassing men check out in the reception desk, wearing the replica of the Burberry blue suit that Hajime had modeled for days back.

At the comment, Hajime chuckles, “if you think this is bad, the hotel in Manhattan is a disaster. The number of calls they receive for lost items is priceless.” and Tooru cracks a smile.

At the top floor, minutes later they arrive. The whole floor belonged to Iwaizumi, designated to him and his family whenever they visited the specific location. He stops at the last door at the end of the hall, pulling out the keycard, swiping it. The lock clicks and he swings the door open. The size of a studio apartment, the kitchenette a decent size. The tile surrounds the marble island, leading into the living room. It’s been recently clean, he remembers leaving the room with a bigger mess. The 60-inch flat screen hangs shiny facing all angles of the room. The huge chandelier is a bit too much, and Iwaizumi has tried to get it removed, reflecting small candles on the tall ceilings. His tie limply hangs around his neck, and he throws it at the couch, slugging off the suit jacket nearby.

“Make yourself at home.” he says, and Tooru relaxes, awing at the hotel room.

“Is this where you take them all? To impress and make them all fall in love you?” Tooru suddenly askes, and Iwaizumi turns from wrestling with the buttons on his shirt.

He combs through his hair, the short stubbles brushing against his fingers, Tooru’s challenging him, and he knows just how to rile him up. He walks toward, mid-pause. The shirt creases on his chest, hem untucked out of his pants halfway.

“Is it working?” he asks in a low voice.

Wedged between him, Tooru pulls Hajime in with the nape of his hair, nuzzling the bottom of his hairline, “only if I can get a kiss.” he whispers, hands on his chest, flicking on more button coyly, lips in a tight-lipped smirk.

“Guess we’ll find out.” His lips touch his ear gently.

The first kiss is explosive, like magma rubbing off a volcano, ready to explode. His mouth was incredibly soft, tasting like cherry chapstick and champagne. Hajime immediately grasps his hips, steering him to come closer. His tongue worms it’s way into his mouth, darting against the roof of his mouth. He could hear Oikawa inwardly groan, melting like putty in his hands. His hands clutch his face, snagging the bottom lip with his teeth. Hajime’s never gotten so hard that he is now.

“Eager are we?” Oikawa chortles, noticing the sudden bulge in his pants.

To avoid the obvious, he plays with his tongue, exploring the roof, sliding around the walls of his mouth. They start to grind against each other, catching frigid air. He can feel the smile on lips as he tugs harder on his hair, and Tooru beneath him. The friction that solidifies between them increases, as he desperately grabs his hair, threading his hair multiple times. It feels satiny in his palm, as Hajime tries to find the best angle. He slots his tongue into his mouth roughly, licking the rim of his lips. Tooru lips gradually move away from his mouth, the strand of saliva parting them. Lightly, his lip moves upward, licking his earlobe.

“Fuck me so hard that I wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow.” Tooru purrs, rolling his words slowly.

At that, Hajime snaps. He lifts Oikawa up, hoisting him to wrap his slender legs around his waist, securing his weight. It’s only a few steps to the next door master bedroom. The clothes that were thrown on the carpet earlier this morning, now rearranged in the master closet. High vaulted ivory ceilings, the insulated gas fireplace at the foot of the bed next to the coffee table. Scattered leftover papers left astray, and he shoves them away. The king bed lays ahead, as he leads them to the edge of the bed, never letting go. He drops him, as Hajime dips into the covers, messing up the fresh grey sheets. The coverlet slides against his knees, and Hajime crawls over Tooru. Oikawa grabs his shirt, fisting it hard. Impatient it looked like. He licks his lips, going in for the kiss. It messy, faster and harder to breathe than the last time.

When he parts for air, brown hazy eyes stare back him. It makes want to fuck him into oblivion, and Oikawa knows it because he tugs on the hem of Hajime’s button-down. Hajime swiftly finishes unbuttoning the remaining clasped buttons, pushing it off his shoulders. It lands on the ground, probably will crumble sooner or later. Oikawa’s cuffed polo feels soft in his hands, as he grazes the skin below. He helps him lift it over his head, as he admires the flawless smooth skin. Small unseen freckles litter his chest, one above the pink nipple, as his fingers caress the bumpy texture. The other’s spotted around his hips, the curve of where his collarbone meets his shoulder bone. His hips whither at the mere contact of Hajime’s chest bumping his, and he groans, sweet and low. Rippling through Hajime, he bounds Oikawa’s wrists over the top of his head.

“Don’t even think about touching yourself.” he growls into his ear, mimicking him. His teeth nibble the top of his earlobe.

“Don’t play with me like that.” Oikawa moans, hips bucking urgently.

Nimbly, Hajime unzips his jeans, lingering for a sec, before pulled into a bruising kiss. He chuckles chucking his own trousers and slipping off Oikawa’s. His hands slink to the waistband of the red boxers that hug his milky legs. Oikawa looked gigglish, as his hands stroke his pecs, hands falling to his side helplessly. He pulls him into another skirmished lip-lock, biting hard on his lip, tasting blood, with satisfaction, he rocks back. Seeing him extremely and aroused below him, bowing to his knees like this, it only angers more. He pushes the last article of clothing done his thighs, thumbing the sliver of his cock. Oikawa falls back in the sheets, shivering at the sudden touch.

“You brute.” Oikawa whimpers, Iwaizumi blows at laugh. They haven’t started and he’s already calling him a brute.

I’ll show you how much of a brute I am, until your begging for mercy, and at my complete submission. I’ll make you mine.

In between his creamy thighs, he tenderly kisses the flesh above his hip, trailing down to his inner legs. Purple shaped bruises that he knows will leave a mark. His lips near his entrance and his reflexes go to trace the outer flesh circling around it. All this teasing riles Oikawa up. His hands find its way into Iwaizumi’s hair. (he must like that a lot.) he decides to save that for another time, as much as he liked foreplay, he actually had something to do. And it was right in front of him. He comes back up, grinning as Oikawa’s captivating face is about to be ruined. He ducks back down, licking a good proportion of his side of his cock. Pre-cum leaking from the top as he licks that up too. Oikawa’s hand grip the sheet, and his knees come up, holding down Hajime.

“Shi-...” he mumbles, hands covering his mouth, words of pleasure spurting from his raw lips.

“You like that?” he asks from licking his cock. Oikawa nods greedily, eyes wide.

Usually, Iwaizumi never liked giving head, blow jobs, hand jobs once in a blood moon if he was in a good mood. But in the heat of the moment, he enjoyed watching Oikawa crumple, transforming from the gaudy, inviting bartender, to the man here pleading him for more. Funny how things worked out. He kisses his cock, saliva drooling uncontrollably. He bobs his head slowly, not fully sucking it yet. He wants him to beg for it. He blows on the tip, playing with it with his tongue.

“Iwa-..” Oikawa trips on his words, “hurry up, what kind of gentleman are you?” he quirks a smile, and it instantly turns him on. His own cock is pulsing, aching actually.

“Tell me what you want.” he says, lips removing from his cock.

He mewls, howl's almost. A loud moan that goes down to his own cock. Sweaty palms, reaching for something to hold on to. Hair ruined, matted in sweaty clumps. Nipples glistening in the pale night.

“Fuck you.” he growls, but his anger demolishes when Iwaizumi ducks down, taking all of his cock in his mouth.

There it is, the beautiful noise that left from his lips, lasting for a good second. His hands come to grind on his hair, combing through Iwaizumi’s once gelled spikes, also plastered to his head.

He’s big, but not as giant as some of the ones he’s encountered in the past, and Oikawa grips his head, pulling him harder. The back of the throat of his throat hitting the tip, luckily he doesn’t cum, and he moves at a faster pace. Oikawa’s hip jerk and his voices go weak.

“....Iwa-chan, don’t-” Oikawa moans, beating his pace, skin meeting his mouth.

He can feel him on the verge of losing himself. He keeps it going, hands at either side of Oikawa’s waist pining him to the bed. He can taste the squirmish taste in his mouth, as he and Oikawa cums at the same time, he doesn’t like the taste of white sticky finish on the tongue but forces himself to swallow. Oikawa drops, groaning with one last grin. His hands are sweaty, and he’s currently a full-fledged mess. He rolls over, facing the other way. They lay there, post-orgasm, and smelly. His fragranced room smelling of sweat and dirty sheets.

He stands up, turning to Oikawa, “do you want the shower first?” he asks. But Oikawa’s already fast asleep, cradled and bundled in the covers.

 

*

The only thing Tooru appreciates after a good blowjob is a good nights rest. He slept like the dead and sleeps through his five o’clock alarm. When he wakes, his eyes open to an unfamiliar place. He freezes, surveys the warm bed, sticky dry liquid on his legs. Naked, and an empty spot beside him. Then he recalls last night, the brooding green-eyed man on top of him, and memories come pooling in. last night had happened and with Iwaizumi Hajime. Not exactly something he could brag to all of his friends.

But the view from outside was gorgeous, the sun spilling from the large glass windows, the view of the city ahead of him. The sunset rising from the west, shades of lazy pink, and orange hidden behind the building. Even from the highest floor, Tooru was able to hear the living world around him. Cars, buses honking, screeches among the streets. It was lucid from his view. And he looks around him, Hajime was loaded, that’s for sure. Even the curtains that hung at the end of the windows were from Wayfair, even as a broke college student he could never afford.

The clock above the unlightened fireplace reads eight-thirty. He knows he overstayed his welcome. Thankfully his morning class doesn’t start until for another hour. He slips out of the fluffy mattress, possibly calling out to him. He finds a silky dress shirt from one of the open dressers, only buttoning it halfway. He pads through the bedroom, the smell of bacon and, coffee? He opens the door, revealing the t.v on the local new on low, and the steam from the cooking pan, extinguishing in the air.

Sadly, he’s wearing clothes, Iwaizumi already dressed. In more what he’d call casual clothes, a short-sleeved button-down ironed and tucked into those strong hips that been destroying him. He feels like a jerk for falling asleep on him before they could finally reach the whole ‘one-night stand’ part. Legs dresses in skinny business pants, oxfords on his feet. What time does he wake up at? He smooths down his hair, approaching Iwaizumi. Tooru walks up to him, peering over his shoulder.

“Slept well I assume?” Iwaizumi flips the spinach omelet in the pan, butter teases his nostrils.

“Like a baby. Is that coffee?” he goes to the steaming coffee maker, hot and ready. A mug is already waiting for him, and he helps himself.

It’s strong, with a spoonful of milk previously added and only five packets of equal, it’s perfect. It glides down his dry throat, the sugar hitting his taste buds, and he coos in delight. Tooru examines the area, finding no maids, no cooks to attend for the food that Iwaizumi is currently cooking. He slides himself into a bar stool, that happens to be facing the enormous windows, cracking width of sunlight, highlighting the contours on the dark-haired man. Setting down the plate of crispy bacon, and the cooked omelet in front of Oikawa, he looks up in surprise.

“Serving breakfast to a hook-up? You truly are a gentleman Iwa-chan.” he giggles, and Iwaizumi’s left twitches at the unaccustomed nickname.

“I give them the weekend off, it’s only me today.” Iwaizumi answers, turning around to wash the pan, and Oikawa’s cheeks heat up at the embarrassing question.

He takes a bite, and then a second. It was tasty, or maybe he was a hungry twenty-year-old. Furthermore, he digs in, finishing the breakfast in a fast amount of time, toast served on the side. He crunches on the bacon as Iwaizumi sneaks one into his mouth with a loose grin. Staying, was a first. Eating the delicious food they make is an additional score that Tooru didn’t think he’d experience.

He waves the remaining piece of bacon at Hajime, “what’s the meaning of this?” he threatens, genuinely curious. “What’s the catch?”

Confused, he shrugs, and returns to washing the dishes, “meaning of what?”

And Tooru, pointing at the bacon, the empty plate, basically everything. Iwaizumi was playing coy, and he knew it.

“Even after passing out on you last night, you make me breakfast, aren’t you doing to kick me out?” he demanded.

“You’re interesting, and good company, why kick you out?” he says, and Tooru can’t reply back. So instead, he ‘humphs’, kicking back his chair, while Iwaizumi disappears back into the bedroom.

Returning, a clean shirt in hand, he chucks it at Tooru, “as much as I like to see you half-dressed, put some clothes on.” cracking a grin, Tooru sticks his legs out defeated.

After taking a shower for as long as possible, who knows how much the water bill might cost, it was hot and steamy and better than the crabby water he gets at his own dorm. Once he finishes, the pants he wears of Iwaizumi are cut right, expect to be a little short length-wise. The shirt is lavender, with stupid sleeve designs on the elbow, but pretty material. He slips on his shoes, and Iwaizumi waits for him, wallet in hand. He’s talking on the phone quietly, murmuring into the screen. When he glances up, he smiles, and says, ‘talk to you later Makki’ before hanging up, stuffing the phone in his pocket.

“I like it.” is all Iwaizumi replies.

“So what are, my sugar daddy?” he teases, and the coffee cup in Iwaizumi hands slips and he nearly chokes. Oops.

“We’ll see.” what an ass, acting all cool and calm. They leave off in silence, an awkward pause and he decides to make the move first

“Good-bye Iwa-chan.” he waves as Tooru goes to open the door.

“I can drive you, you have classes right?” his voice almost hopefully, and as tempting as it is, to drive in a red jaguar along 23th street with the man on the Burberry ad, he declines.

“I think I’ll walk.” he insists, shutting the door behind him.

Not even twenty minutes later when Oikawa texts him, asking to meet him up for lunch later in the afternoon, he responds quickly after.

 **Tooru** : Iwa-chan, it’s Oikawa. Wanna meet up at the campuses cafe around 1????

 **Iwa-chan** : why so aggressive? Fine, whatever.

Happily, skips down the sidewalk when another tweet alerts him in his pocket and he opens the notification.

 **Iwa-chan** : don’t even think that I’m buying, you can pay for your own shitty drink.

 

 


	2. I'll go wherever you are, I'll follow behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> work habits, not-so coffee dates, and maybe more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for taking so long with this update, i had so much to do! but i really hope you like this chapter! im still trying to figure out Oikawa's personality so plzz bear with me!

 

“Thank you for coming, I’ll be sure to let my father know that you came by.” Iwaizumi’s words are promising, as another of the hopeful company representatives stands up.

They share a firm handshake, as Iwaizumi leads him out the door. Once the solid shut of the door collides, he falls back with a tired sigh. It was only noon, and he already craved for a drink. This wasn’t even his job, to take care of his father’s client, and charm their way into the family business; that was his mother’s task. Maybe his brother’s, if his good-natured vulgar principles were up to note. But if that meant getting out of the tricky part of this, then Hajime would gladly give up the role to his family. While tending to the counterfeit charismatic persona he had to face with the cameras only a few of his friends, actually bothered to get to know him beneath the Rolex watches and Alessandro Demesure leather Oxfords.

He allows himself to relax, for a quick second. Tilting his head back on the rest, his thought immediately turn to the quick-witted brunette from last night. Witty, provocative, and fucking drop-dead gorgeous; Iwaizumi simply couldn’t resist. Not only did Oikawa seem to know a lot out of the bedroom, but he was amazing in it too. Although the fantasy was lived short, all he could think about was his pink soft lips, his tongue darting in his mouth, his fucking moans invading his mind. He definitely shouldn’t be thinking this, but his hands lower itself to the belt of his trousers. Someone could walk in on him. That would destroy his father’s image, and he huffed a laugh at the image of the Iwaizumi empire being thrown into tatters.

There’s a small knock at the door before it goes swinging open, startled he throws his hands on the desk. Hanamaki’s wide cat-like smile only causes for Hajime’s cheeks to flush, almost caught in the act.

His eyebrows raised, “getting down and dirty are we? If I had known I would’ve brought Matsu and we could’ve painted each other nails while gossiping about New York’s latest scandals.” and Iwaizumi scowls at the unfiltered assumption.

“Must you walk in now? I have work to do.” he waves him off, standing up grab the rocks pitcher from the cabinet, without asking he pours vodka for too.

“Drinking at noon is what you call work?” he accepts the glass, eying the clear beverage before taking a sip. Wrinkling his nose at the strong taste, he sits the glass on Iwaizumi’s glass. “You’re going to die of alcohol poisoning,” he says.

Shrugging, Hajime takes out his thick-rimmed black glasses, putting them on, “it’s my father’s.” he answers.

Hanamaki gives him a wary expression, mixed with concern and he drinks the whole glass in one round. The bitterness leaving an ugly aftertaste, and Iwaizumi’s expression mimics Hanamaki’s after setting down his glass. He knows his father is an alcoholic, or close to one. That’s one secret their family has managed to keep. Though Iwaizumi Daisuke managed to hide it well, with busy meetings, and late nights out. Only Iwaizumi has been unlucky to discover his own father hidden side.

It was only a year ago, when Iwaizumi had arrived late from spending the evening at the office, incessantly looking over the spreadsheets, setting up meetings to invest and build the empire only more. Iwaizumi only twenty-one at the time, to be handling every financial deal made by his father, it was a lot of work. His father had come into the office rolling around almost midnight, drunk off his ass. This wasn’t the first time, and Iwaizumi had always been there to baby him, the rest of the family incapable of doing so.

Mumbling improper sentences, he follows the same routine. Calling the limo, waiting for him to lash out. Sometimes, he stays quiet, too much in his system. But other times, Iwaizumi gets a mouthful of drunk slurs. He’d love to tell his wasted ass to get his act together, but that would ruin the partnership that they’ve managed to maintain. His father isn’t a bad man, maybe with the sensibility and maturity at times of a drunken teenager, he respected him. He built the empire, while not the best in the father department, he made up for the lack of parenting abilities. His mother took care of that.

Obviously, he hasn’t told anyone. Though he suspects Hanamaki and his friends are suspicious of Iwaizumi’s role in the industry. But he’s handled it all well, he made sure the company hasn’t completely fallen apart. So Iwaizumi has done made some impact at least.

“I know you didn’t come here for me to rant about my daddy issues, what is it?” he says bluntly, and Hanamaki eyes widen, feigning pain.

“We’ve been friends since high school, and you still wouldn’t tell me about the mysterious girl from last night?” he asks, bending his elbows on the table in front of his desk.

“Mystery boy.” he corrects, and Hanamaki happily motioning a welcoming gesture.

“I see, you took the detour to gay havoc.” he throws a snarky smile, as the glass nearly slips out of his hands.

“Do me a favor and keep your mouth shut.” he hisses.

“Come on, I know about the Manhattan car scandal. It’s nothing new that your a two way street.”

He whips his head forward, almost getting whiplash from the sudden movement, “you know about the Manhattan-” his voice drys and drops lower half from embarrassment and the other from the fact that their in an office, and he’s not sure how soundproof it is.

“Arriving at the office until one, a big no no.” he clicks his tongue, wiggling his pointer finger at Iwaizumi.

“Fuck, here I die in embarrassment, thinking that was one thing I could keep from you.” he refrains himself from sitting down to smack himself with the nearest stapler.

Crossing his legs business-like, he grins even wider, “Matsu knows too, and I’m pretty sure the whole state of New York does too.”

He groans, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose, “is there anything else I should know, about my attacked sex life?”

“Only that I think you had a good time last night.”

Throwing the nearest chair cushion across the room, Hanamaki whines, “get out.” Iwaizumi deadpans.

“You can’t get rid of me, I work here.” Hanamaki points out.

When Iwaizumi goes to rest his case, a quick buzz intrudes their conversation from his desk. He rushes to grab the device before Hanamaki could but he snatched it away, flipping it open.

“Give it back.”

“Iwa-Chan, I need to return your clothes. You’re lucky I washed them, meet me earlier?” He reads out, standing up so Hajime can’t grab it from the distanced reach.

“What are you twelve? Give it here Makki.” He hisses, and Hanamaki giggles like a fucking five year old.

“Iwa-chan? Is this some sort of name kink?” He drops his grip and Iwaizumi seizes it from his loose fingers as Hanamaki shrugs.

“No it isn’t you perv, the guy is an idiot.”

“The idiot your fucking.” He sings out, being exceptionally loud on the ‘fucking’ part.

“Can you be a little louder? I don’t think the whole floor heard you.” Hajime growls out, shoving the phone into back pocket, ignoring the persistent buzzes against the back pocket of his suit pants.

“Don’t act like the gentleman here, we all know that your not so innocent.” Hanamaki smirks.

A loud click fills the room, and his receiver beeps as he reaches over to hit the answer button.

“What is it Kiyoko?” He asks.

“There’s a man waiting in the lobby, he says his name is Oikawa Tooru. Would you like me to send him up?”

Fuck, he was early. Grabbing his suit jacket from the old brown coat rack by the door, he takes his wallet from the used Burberry pants pocket.

“No, I’ll come down. Don’t let him past security.” He calls out and the line goes dead.

“Is this mystery boy? Going for a round two, I thought you only do one night stands?” Hanamaki wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. It’s a friendly meaningless get together.” Iwaizumi locks the door behind him, as Hanamaki wordlessly follows him.

They take the elevator floors down to the main lobby, watching as the outside world spins around them like ants. The streets were already busy, tourists flushing the roads.

“Let me do all the talking.” Iwaizumi instructs when the elevator door slides open.

Sitting in the lobby, skimming through the magazine, Oikawa’s brunette head bent over the pages. The sunlight beckoning on his eyelashes. Glittering like hummingbirds, familiar brown pupils carefully reading the paper. Now, he supported semi-rimmed reading glasses, similar to Hajime’s. They fit his frame, a bit too well, and Iwaizumi’s adam’s apple swallows as he approaches him.

“I thought we weren’t meeting until later.” And Oikawa throws the forgotten magazine aside, meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes. He’s also forgotten how tall he was, damn.

“Well, I thought I’d come here early, and give you your clothes, I don’t need them.” He says stiffly handing him a large teal Michael Kors gift bag, inside he assumed was his borrowed articles of clothing.

“You could’ve kept them, there were a gift.” He frowns, handing the gift bag to the receptionist, asking her to take it to the cleaners.

“Oh- you don’t need to worry about cleaning them, I’ve already washed it. You’re welcome by the way.” He says cockily.

Finally, Hajime takes Oikawa in, sinking in the windswept signature coiffed hair. A trace of black circles accompanying his eyes, and he dares not to mention them. As much Iwaizumi referred him in his own clothes, the tight material doing wondering on his muscled legs. To pair off his black glasses, he wore a pair of sweatpants, and a long cashmere cardigan considering the warmer weather. The soles of the identical leather boots he adorning his feet in the past, now replaced with Nike athletic tennis shoes.

Oikawa’s backpack is resting against the velvet chair he previously sat on, Iwaizumi guesses he just came back from classes. But the question is how the hell did Oikawa know where to find him? He didn’t remember him mentioning anything about where he worked, though it was a dead ringer that Iwaizumi Inc. building was in the center of the city.

“Thanks, are you ready?” He asks, and Oikawa nods, realizing that Hanamaki was watching them with a sly smile.

“I didn’t know you were bringing a plus one.” He winks to Hanamaki nearby.

“My assistant was just leaving.” He glares at Hanamaki who steps forward not taking the hint to scram.

“Hanamaki Takahiro, I hardly work for him, don’t listen to him.” He waves and Oikawa turns to Iwaizumi.

“And I remembered you said you have somewhere to be, Hanamaki?”

Hanamaki, god bless his stupid soul understands, and salutes with a matching grin.

Clearing his throat he says, “I do, definitely have somewhere to be. Won’t want to miss it.”

Clapping his back, he throws on his sunglasses, “pleasure meeting you Oikawa.” He nods to the brunette, sending a wink Hajimes way before saying goodbye to Kiyoko who rolls her eyes.

“Likewise Makki-Chan.” His tone charming and light-hearted. “I didn’t know Iwa-chan had friends.” Oikawa adds.

“I think I liked you better with your mouth shut.” Iwaizumi says flatly.

Hajime steps out of the revolving doors with Oikawa on his heels, as the doorman tips his hat in his direction. Valet appears with his car, rolling around to the front. Even Oikawa isn’t able to hide the awe of Iwaizumi’s sleek black Bentley. The roof exposed, vintage white stitched seats. Silver rimmed interior glimmered from the reflection on the mirror.

“I’m sure we can have that arranged.” Eyes darkening,glittered with amusement. And he couldn’t tell if he was really serious. That’s what really scared the shit out of him.

“What are you waiting for? Get in.” He demands.

“Where’s the chauffeur?” He looks around, arms crossed.

“I’ll be driving, get in the car princess.” He grunts our, shoving slightly.

Gingerly, he watches as Oikawa opens the car door, sliding in as Iwaizumi follows. He lets the electric hum come to life of the engine as he puts the key into ignition. It roars, settling in bones, a sweet satisfying sound. Iwaizumi sets his seat back a inch, putting his feet on the pedestal. He pulls out of the roundabout, making to the traffic light of the main road. Reaching over, he pushes the air conditioning on high. Flicking the tinted Marlboro cigarette packet from the flap, he lights the cigar with one hand, while the other hand steers the wheel.

“Really?” Oikawa scoffs, wafting his hand around to free the smoke from his face.

The cigarette hangs low between his teeth, as Iwaizumi ignores him. Smoke blows into the air filters, mixing into the cold air hitting his upper leg.

“What is it?” He questions impatiently, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The light was longer than usual.

Bluntly, Oikawa says, “You reek of cancer.”

“Don’t give me that healthy shit speech or I will throw you out of the car.” He hisses, sucking on the nicotine taking form on the tip of the cigar.

“But Iwa-chan, I especially remembered you mention that I was ‘good company’, you wouldn’t throw me out even if you could.” The light turns green, and he steps off the brake, throwing Oikawa’s head back into the seat, shutting him up.

“It was the heat of the moment.” He mumbles, and Oikawa doesn’t seem to catch it, too busy adjusting the radio.

The rise of the beat fades into the background, as they drive. The campus was farther away than Iwaizumi anticipates, as Oikawa next to him tweeks with the seat adjustments, lounging in the seat. It’s some American pop song that he shamelessly is unable to bring himself to remember the lyrics to but Oikawa lowly mutters beneath his breath the tune of it. The melody is catchy, and Hajime lazily flutters his fingers to the beat while driving. Crinkling the bud of the cigar into the ashtray as he finishes the lasting nicotine in his mouth.

“Were you busy?” Oikawa breaks the silence, arm extending out towards the open window.

Iwaizumi stops his incessant tapping, “not at all. I was wrapping up anyway.” he says.

“I bet all of Iwa-chan’s co-workers shit their pants at his behind camera smile.” his hands rest under his chin, as his eyes stare out.

“Actually it’s my father not be reckoned with, and I told you stop calling me Iwa-chan.” he emphasizes on the last part.

“Hmm, I’m not sure about that. How does Iwa-chan manage to keep his frown upside-down?” his voice too chipper.

“I’m not some monster, I have to stay professional.” Iwaizumi dubiously sighs.

“You act like such a brute but really you're a big softie on the inside.” Oikawa announces finger pressed to his temple as Hajime was the last puzzle piece that he put together. What a dumbass.

“As if you know anything about me.” the sentence came out more harsher than he intended, but Oikawa only wicked grins.

“I intend on doing so, getting to know the great Iwaizumi Hajime,” Oikawa whispers in his ear, leaving a tickle in his ear.

“Don’t say shit like that.” he ducks away, focusing on the road ahead of him.

“Eyes on the road Iwa-chan, we’re almost there!” he chirps out, turning up the volume higher on the radio.

The road traffic gets heavier as lunchtime rush turns the streets berserk. Street carts of mochi, takoyaki, and the best fried hot dogs in the upper east side. The spicy scents of Phaal curry wafting into the car, and he could hear his stomach growl.

“Change of plans, how about some Indian?” Oikawa asks, nudging to the smorgasbord curry restaurant on East street.

He agrees, unable to disagree to his stomach, “alright, but now you owe a coffee.” and he turns right.

He’s been to this one, several times. Memorized the entrance by heart. Hanamaki likes their flaky cream puffs, often brutally persuading Iwaizumi into his tropes. He swings into an empty parking lot, as the engine dies out. Pulling the key out, he stuffs it into the unoccupied pocket below his lapels. Shutting the door behind him, he goes to the right side, opening the door for Oikawa, who only flippantly strikes his nose high. Ass.

Entering, the crowd in the restaurant is surreal. The buffet is surrounded on all sides, the yellow caved lights giving a dimmed and moody comfort. He waves to the hostess, a younger blonde who shys away from Iwaizumi’s friendly smile.

“Right this way please!” She squeaks out.

“We’d like a booth if there are any available,” Oikawa adds, giving the hostess the most charming smile, little teeth.

Frantically, she nods leading them right a small corner booth, a mosaic glass mural dividing the main seating area. The crimson and electric blue hues seeping through the sunlight. The faux brown pleather is grainy against his palm as he slides into the booth. Menus are placed in front of him, as she flips the wine glasses. The gold cutlery dazzling the afternoon light.

“Will this do?” Standing at the end of the table, hands tucked at her front, wisps on sleek golden strand hanging over her ears.

Shaking his head, “Perfect, thank you, Yachi-chan.” With another Crest-white smile, she skitters away almost tripping on the Bengal patterned rug.

Focusing back on Iwaizumi, Oikawa only takes the water pitcher and gracefully pours the ice water into the tall glass. The chill liquid creates frost around the cup. Hajime stares at the menu, words swirling around him, carelessly looking through the choices.

“If anything, I think Iwa-chan scared our poor Yachi-chan away.” He swoops down, almost as he scaring a secret.

“Don’t be an idiot, your picture-perfect smile surely made her go blind.” He snorts, letting himself pour his own water.

“I’d rather be charismatic than a grumpy idol.” He huffs, and Iwaizumi can’t help but notice the way the sunlight scattered across his eyes.

God, this wasn’t a date was it? The coffee plan was simple, in and out but now here he was, bantering with someone born on the total opposite of his world. Soft curls looping perfectly around his frame, the tiniest dimple wedged into the right side of his cheek. Almost a dark amber, tinges of toffee and hazelnut all meshed together. Even the lightest of movements created a perfect image, neck exposed, a tiny loophole. He memorized of the curve of his neck, slender, feminine. Cardigan gaping at the back, his eyes trace the arch of his spine. Swallowing, he dares to not look away. He’s never found anyone so mesmerizing before, so why now?

“With all that frowning, you’ll end up with premature wrinkles.” Oikawa breaks his concentration, snapping his fingers with impatientness.

“What is it?” he snapped back, reflexively flinching back.

If there’s mild hurt in his expression, he doesn’t show it, instead peers at the menu a few more times, only to shut it close.

“Iwa-chan’s awfully distant today, is there something going on in that big dense brain of yours?” he winks playfully, but Hajime only flicks his nose away.

“Don’t be an ass, work’s been stressful lately, that all.” strumming his fingers along his chin, he stares out the window from far away. The secluded area was dim, lights low and shadowed away from the rest of the customers.

His collar felt itchy, and he wrestles to loosen the collared shirt, as the waiter drops by to take their orders, and he quickly orders the Butter Chicken with an extra side of Naan bread to the bill.

“I’ll have spicy curry with lentil soup.” brazenly, he artiscally closes the laminated menu, handing it to them.

“Anything to drink as well?” and he shifts unsurely, was is it a good to drink?

He was nothing like his father.

“A rum, no ice please.” fiddling with cuff links of his jacket, his hands twitch.

Leaving with their orders, and Oikawa’s alcoholic choice of a plain of wine they fled, leaving them alone. Eyes dipped in charcoal stare back at him, hands messing his hair. What does he do next?

“Tell me about yourself Iwa-chan.” Oikawa says suddenly, and he frowns.

“That’s what the internets for.” swiftly, he replies.

Pouting slightly, lip stuck out, “how do I know those facts are true, what if your some imposter? Some creep faking to be the real Iwa-chan?” he raises his eyebrows, and the visible vein in his forehead starts to grow.

“Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?”

“Aren’t we friends? Friends get to know each other.” Oikawa presses.

“Hardly that.” he scoffs, as their drinks, placed in front of them.

Rarely, does Iwaizumi enjoy rum, preferring something more awakening and sharp like his usual whiskey. He lets the sweetened age alcohol enter his throat, fingers frigid over the cool temperature. But the warm scent fills his senses, and he drinks half of the cup in two minutes. Scrutinizing, Oikawa sips his elegant drink.

“What do you want to know?” he rolls his neck, lounging his head on the seat.

“Everything, I’m curious as to why the great Iwa-chan is no unhappy about being suckered into the business.” coyly he says, fisting his hand underneath his chin.

“For starters, I was born in Sendai, then lived Hokkaido until I could walk before moving to the United States. My japanese is rusty that’s for sure.” he says, laughing into the rim of his glass.

“Must be nice, living the best of both worlds.”

“With fame and living a normal life, you can’t have both.” Hajime admits.

By the time Oikawa senses that the topic is tricky to talk about, the food comes. And the clock in front of him ticks like a bomb as the silence passes. He uses the opportunity to call a refill for his rum, as the waiter nearby fills it again.

“Why’d you move to New York?” Oikawa brings up, and it takes him by surprise.

“If you're that desperate to seek answers than your gonna have to do more than beg.” He grins, gesturing his spoon in his face.

Oikawa’s face distorts into disappointment “No fair Iwa-chan!” He whines out.

Taking a bite out his curry bowl, the spices sting his tongue, and his eyes start to water;just how to he likes it. He viciously tears a piece of Oikawa’s buttery fresh naan bread, popping it into his mouth. Oikawa stares at him annoyingly through his lenses but returns to his food. Iwaizumi enjoys the extra kick of heat in his mouth, as he flicks his fork around in the dark orange curry sauce.

His appetite is limited, when all he can think of is what’s going at the office. He’s sure his secretary could take of his office for what, two hours? The chicken sticks to the roof of his mouth as his stomach churns. Overhead lighting above them, starts to dim, creating the people around them to absorb into shadows. The low bass plays in the background, and Iwaizumi pays no attention to it.

Halfway through, Iwaizumi pushes his plate away, returning to his drink, “so you go to NYU?” he says, breaking the ice with the simple question.

Oikawa’s lips quirk into a funny expression, “Surprised? My education may not be up to par with your private tutors but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“I went to high school what am I, a rich brat?” he rolls his eyes, and Oikawa’s posture wilts at the dripping sarcasm in his voice.

“Well then, I’m a major in Astrobiology.” Oikawa declares proudly.

Iwaizumi blinks, laughing it away, “that’s not a thing.” he says, and Oikawa squints at him before clicking at him like a helpless animal.

Protruding with arrogance, “Aliens are very real, besides you’re not a true believer.” and Iwaizumi kicks his shin under the table. Whimpering, he whispers, “bully.” under his breath quickly.

“I bet that gets off with the girls, hearing a dork and their belief that aliens are apart of this universe.” Iwaizumi snorts, shaking his head in disbelief.

“How rude, what does Iwa-chan know about who to get popular with the ladies-wait don’t answer that.” Oikawa hushes him, reaching across the table.

“Oikawa, please shut up.” Iwaizumi gulps, unprepared for the closeness that the unbearable heat gives.

He’s staring at his lips, once again, those pink luscious rosy lips, “glady.”

Iwaizumi’s not sure who moves first, but the clatter of utensils slap the table, but that can be solved later. His lips collide like thunder, grabbing a fistful of hair, gasping for the best way to kiss him whole. It’s felt so long, and yet Iwaizumi is weak to his simplistic touches. One threading his hair, tugging on his tie, as his wet hot tongue licks his tongue. Inclining to his reach, he can’t help but spread his hands, pushing past the thick layers of skin that part him from reuniting with his skin. But when Oikawa finally parts, both heaving with lust and desperation for them to hold on, he glimpses his dark eyes, and he’s just glad that their booth was so far away from the rest, it may as well be a private room.

“If you wanted to get into my pants, you should’ve just asked nicely.” Oikawa lows his voice, breath dangerously close, tasting like lemon and champagne.

“Like I said, use that vile mouth for something good.” Hajime breathless croaks out.

That same smile, finger rubbing his chin neatly, titling his head, waiting, “I may have a few ideas.”

 

*

Yes, this wasn’t he had planned, sitting in Iwaizumi Hajime’s lap, kissing the fuck out of him. But things change, it was unfortunate that his lips were sore and probably needed chapstick. He almost feels bad for the waitress who nearly walks in on them twice now, can’t blame them. But only is he a college student, and yes having a sex life is nothing to be shamed about, but Oikawa didn’t plan for things to where they were at the moment. Granted, he loved everyone moment of it.

Kissing him for some reason, felt real. He was not one to get into details, so he could save the tenderness for later. Tooru shivers in his lap, thighs pressing against his waist. He felt desperate, scrappy, and definitely unsexy with his glasses slanted crooked on his nose. Clutching the lapels of Iwaizumi’s suit jacket (Giorgio Armani, herringbone this time), he tugs on the incredibly soft material, wetting his dry lips. Iwaizumi follows him, chasing the kiss, dipping Oikawa into the table. The plates clatter and he presses his hands on his table, gaining stability. His legs were like jelly, shaking above his touch. Tooru would be infuriated at how malleable he was when he was this close to the man but he wraps his arms around his neck, fingers sliding on the curve of his neck.

“This is highly inappropriate, we could get caught.” Iwaizumi mumbles between his lips.

“But you seem to think otherwise.” he purrs, rolling his hips.

Catching his bottom lip in a hold with his teeth, his hands flutter like hummingbirds, admiring the build in his forearms. Now, he already knew this observation prior to last time, but the only thing that keeps him from groaning is the warm tongue slipping his mouth. His lips crushed together, and Oikawa mumbles a weak groan. Pushing down his cardigan, Iwaizumi’s cold hands make him shiver, the short stubble dips onto Tooru’s jaw and he erratically starts to giggle.

Oikawa pauses, “You haven’t shaved.” Iwaizumi’s face distorts into concern but mostly deadpan confusion.

“If my facial hair bothers you, your welcome to stop.” his mouth hangs below him, taunting.

Tooru rambles, his nerves getting to him,“Keep the stubble, for all I care, grow a beard. A goatee, mustache, whatever floats your bo-” and thank god Iwaizumi shuts him up.

Together, their hands scamper to zippers and buttons, as if it’s their first time. Sucking air, his tongue lazily draws circles, curling his fingers into his shoulders. His sudden gentleness surprises him, and he tugs for the same dominance he met last night. Deftly, he flips a single button, rummaging to get it open. Smooth broad skin, Oikawa lifts his head, and the crook is exposed. Narrowing, his eyes pool with hunger, and Tooru shudders. They start slow, skimming the field. Thumbing his shoulder, sliding past the shirt, Iwaizumi sucks on the pale skin. Shaking in his lap, Oikawa grinds, needy to find his lips again.

“...haj..Iwa-chan.” he moans, catching himself on the slip, but Iwaizumi doesn’t notice.

He’s most certainly hard, and Tooru can felt through Iwaizumi’s pants. He reaches for the buckle, as a thump interrupts him. He flings himself off of Iwaizumi, wiping his lips of saliva. Their red, and sore, as he recovers his shoulders, fixing his shirt. Iwaizumi’s is as guilty as he is when the kind waitress comes around. They probably heard them, yet stops at their table as Oikawa stares at his dish.

“Sorry for interrupting, but I wanted to know if there’s anything else I could get you.” her cheeks a rosy pink.

Iwaizumi clears his throat, “no, we’ll take the check.”

When the black checkbook hits the table, they both grab it. Oikawa meets Iwaizumi’s eyes, his hair could really use a bit of grooming.

“What are you doing Oikawa? Let me handle this.” he insists, and Tooru tightens his grip.

“We’ll be paying together.” he announces, throwing the last of his cash on the table, “keep the change.” he adds, as she hurried away.

“I was joking about paying.” Iwaizumi turns to him, as Oikawa slides off the booth.

Giving a quick chaste kiss, his words are like rubber in his mouth, “come stop by the university tomorrow, and I’ll treat you.” with a wave he leaves him dumbfounded.

Giving a kind smile to the hostess, the wind sweeps his already mussed hair, he could really use a comb. Tooru can feel his phone buzz, and he ignores them. Either it was Iwaizumi, or his sister, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with neither of them. Though it was preferable that he gave Kaori a call, Takeru ought to be wondering where his favorite uncle was. But he couldn’t face his father, his mother, not yet-not yet. It was only three and the sun hasn’t gone down, classes don’t start until tomorrow. Terrible, that Oikawa has nowhere to go. Taking the subway, he could easily get to Brooklyn, visit Tsukishima as he promised. On second thought, having to deal with his gut-ripping sarcasm wasn’t how Tooru wanted to spend the rest of his day.

The best solution was to study for the Biology exam he hasn’t studied for, hailing a taxi. As he passes by the busy city, his pented (sexual) frustration goes towards the billboard that stares down at them from the traffic light stop. An overly expensive cologne that smells that wood and pine needles, it fit Iwaizumi. Rather than the stoic, surly somehow attractive facial expression he usually wore, it was carefree, as if he wasn’t pressured to be perfect. The smallest of dimples, a crease on his forehead from his smile. Tooru would like to meet this man, the one that could smile so freely like that.

Iwaizumi was a mystery, he’s adressed this already, but despite his numerous accounts of bugging him into telling him about his personal life, he refuses. It’s understandable, they’ve known each other for approximately less than twenty-four hours, and have done nothing else besides kiss and share some pretty intimate moments together. Though Oikawa had his doubts, Tooru felt drawn. Like a moth to an open flame, the flame not too vibrant but evident. The fancy suits, and golden watches were obvious but Iwaizumi had no intention in telling Oikawa who he really was, outside of the glorious world of Manhattan, behind the riches.

Oikawa always did have a problem meddling into other people businesses. Maybe it’s what he does best.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates every other week
> 
> Guys tell me what you think about this ! Love towards kudos and comments!


	3. Heard about all the miles you've gone just to start again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa Tooru doesn't get attached. That's what he tells himself every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOO sorry for the late update again, I promise I'll do better next time, but thank you for the love and kudos!

Giving the circumstances, Tooru with a passion loathed his last class of the day. Chemistry not only being the occurring class that he’s forced to participate in every week but it never caught his eyes. To him, with its rules and regulations, there were too many standards. Standards, procedures that forced him to ensure that he wouldn’t blow up the lab. In the manual per every experiment contained a guideline, a set of instruction to guarantee there would be no mistakes. Tooru excelled in these desirable measures, despite the impulsive eagerness when he holds the chemicals in his hands. But the last thing he needed was to be kicked out, so he plays it safe always.

Although Tooru does receive high marks in the class, he doesn’t thoroughly enjoy the course as much as he does with his other accompanied minors that are part of his astrobiology course. Maybe he was too afraid to confront the rules, only neglected them instead. No, he wasn’t scared, scared would mean he was weak, and Oikawa Tooru was not weak. Not to himself, his friends, or Iwaizumi.

Definitely not Iwaizumi.

He speculates that Iwaizumi is a whole other problem, one that he’d rather deal with later. But no matter how many times he tried he could weasel those stupid arm muscles that were only a little bit to drool over, and the chipped smile he got when Oikawa looked away. It was official, Tooru couldn’t rid him out of his head and it was driving him crazy. Sure, as he’s previously established a platonic outing or two didn’t mean squat to him. Platonic or not, the word has no true meaning to his case, and Tooru could live as a poor single extremely attractive college student. Overthinking happened to be another of his specialties, but flipping through the pages of his biology textbook didn’t seem to help him either.

The library was quiet, students nose-dived into their books, and the old librarian that brings him chocolate fudge clicks with her pink pastel nails at the monitor in front of her round cat glasses too large for her bone structure. They slip from her nose, the beads that hold lens from completely draping around her neck bounce off the sunroof windows.

The last cup of coffee he’s ingested since this morning makes his stomach all fluttery and queasy-like. The glasses nobbed at the edge of his nose, slip poorly sufficing to their job. Irritated, he throws them aside, beside the itchy contacts that he refuses to replace his glasses with. He should be studying, take his mind off of Iwaizumi and strive to not fail college. Tooru’s eyes water as he takes himself away from the too luminous screen for a split second to check his phone for any missed messages.

Of course, Iwaizumi wouldn’t text him, he was a busy man himself. No doubt sitting at his desk surrounded by piles of folders with architecture drafts to destroy another of Brooklyn's historical museums. He wondered if his family owned a dog, maybe an Akita or Pomeranian. Though it seemed that most political or diplomatic family owned some sort of prestigious animal. Maybe Oikawa was being only a bit prejudice, but the image of Iwaizumi as a child running through the vast grassy green gardens of his family’s summer home with a fluffy barking dog made him want to puke. He didn’t seem to be the type to do so. The question wasn’t exactly the best to bring up during sex, or whatever festivities of a relationship they have at the moment.

Not that he didn’t want to have sex with Iwaizumi, hell that was about anybody’s dream. A fantasy he’s been living with for the past forty-eight hours. Though he has learned a few things about the man. There’s a small piercing in his left earlobe where a small stud earring possible once would’ve been. It’s still visible, and Oikawa has a habit of catching it between his teeth. Currently a stubble on his jaw, he must’ve haven’t shaved in what days? Regardless, he could go for guys with a bit of fuzz but the lovely eyebags signal a flicker in his brain. With the millions of dollars tied to his name, Iwaizumi often acted uncomfortable talking about his family affairs. Oikawa understood, while not embodied with that ludicrous amount of money his family wasn’t in the best of places.

Only a few people knew of his financial situation, how he’s working three jobs to pay off the student loans to scrape enough to split with his family and himself. He couldn’t afford to slip up, one bad grade, one misstep, especially with someone like Iwaizumi who lived literally and figuratively on the other side of the world. This wouldn’t plan out well, with Oikawa’s rags and Iwaizumi’s Louis Vuitton of riches. How cliche it sounds, it true. Things like this in the books and movie don’t turn out well. Whether one falls in love or both do which happens to be the worst scenario he would be absolutely and perfectly fucked. He could always cut him out of his life, but that’d make him an ass, and Oikawa was the opposite of that. So the best solution is to play it low and coy, avoiding Iwaizumi was impossible. The inevitable that they keep meeting up, going after for more. See that’s why he prefers to invest out of relationships, strictly one-night stands.

“If we don’t pay for the rent, they’re actually going to kick us out.” Tsukishima kicks the chair beside him, easily finding his way next to Oikawa.

Shutting his laptop, he spins around to face his new guest, with a sharp smile, “it’s your turn to pay, plus I’m pretty sure that’s not true. The landlord loves me.” he hums, giving a peevish smile.

“Well now she doesn’t, the rents overdue and soon enough we won’t have a place to sleep.” his golden eyes glaze over Oikawa, his slender arms flexed above his head.

“You could always sleep at Testu-chan’s cozy apartment, no problem,” he said bitterly.

Raising the thin blonde eyebrow, he rolls his eyes, “don’t be an idiot, you haven’t even spent enough time at our place, we may as well sell it.”

“I’m a broke college student with two jobs to balance, what do you expect?” he whines, and Tsukishima, realigns his glasses that start to fall.

“If you need money, just say so and I’ll pay rent for this month.” Tsukishima’s honeysuckle tinted pupils darken as doting kindness.

Glaring, he bites his lip, “if I wanted to be a charity case by now I would’ve asked alright?”His voice accidentally rises and a chorus of ‘shushed’ glares share their looks.

“Oh, piss off.” He replies, muttering under his breath.

With a satisfied snark, he stretches his long limbs that tangle against Oikawa’s knocking on the wooden table. It creates small ‘creek’ with the squeaky kegs of the table and Oikawa sits up to avoid the hungry glares around him. Snatching the banana from Tsukishima’s jean pocket, he fastly slides the yellow peels and stuffs half the thing into his mouth before Tsukishima could comprehend what happened.

Swallowing he grins, “sorry, I got hungry.” Tooru explained.

But the blonde only sighs, eye twitching at the lost fruit. “When was the last time you eat?”

“It’s not that important, I had some late lunch yesterday.” And Tsukishima clicks his tongue annoyed, “I’m so behind on homework that I forgot to eat since then.” He adds.

“What’s today?” Tsukishima asks him suddenly, giving him a sifted stare.

But Tooru is troubled, he slams his head to the table, and the whole library stares at him. He didn’t care, he couldn’t even remember the date, how pathetic. Yesterday was Monday, the term paper for the advanced Statistics class he struggled to fit into his schedule. But tomorrow was the oral presentation, as a TA substitute for the freshman biotechnology class. No, that couldn’t be right, he was due for that a few days ago. Has the days already passed? And Tooru swore he had a meeting with his financial advisor to discuss the scholarship grant that brought him here to NYU in the first place.

“Friday?” He guesses and when Tsukishima shakes his head, he throws his head back down in defeat.

“Tuesday, Oikawa I’m seriously worried, have you been getting any sleep?”

He slumps his head back, batting his eyelashes immensely. “...is Tsukki growing soft?” He sings out.

“Stop acting like a child, you just need to take better care of yourself.” He could see it, the barest tint of flush crept down his polo shirt.

“If I wanted someone to play mother hen for me, I would’ve called ‘Kaashi.” He whines, suppressing a snort.

“He would’ve told you to get your head out of your ass and go complain to somebody elsewhere,” Tsukishima warned.

“See perfect motherly figure.” Standing up, he brushes his belongs into the backpack once hanging from his chair, and he follows in unison.

Parting his hair swirling on his eyes, Tsukishima latches onto his wrist forcing to turn around, “will you at making it back here by ten, Tetsurou is making hot pot and I want you to be there.” His stare is deadly and straightforward, but He supposed it can’t hurt to make an effort to show up. “and we can watch trashy movies and eat sorbet ice cream?” It was good effort dishing out their biannual ritual, not fair to use as a trump card, always the dirty work.

“I’m sure I can get Ukai to let me take an early shift.” He mutters, and ends of his mouth curl the slightest. “Just one thing..” and Tsukishima’s keen eyes sparkle deftly in the light.

“Refrain from letting Kuroo use our oven, he almost burned the kitchen cooking cheesy bread last time, I can only imagine what the hell he'll do to our stove.”

With a greased smile, he replies. “Deal.”

 

It turns out that his TA class is today, saving him from the embarrassment of missing that. Truly he didn’t know what he’d do if he’d walked into an empty classroom. He didn’t have any classes that he knew of. The library took up the majority of the passing free time he had, and Tooru didn’t have any plans. Though he could always take up Tsukishima’s offer of calling Akaashi to complain. The passive stoic musician spent his social life holed up in the rehearsal room. He couldn’t argue, Akaashi was an excellent violinist. Whenever he’s able to scrape a few extra tickets, he’s generous enough to come to the formal recitals. They’re forced to dress nicely while Akaashi plays at the stage filled with blinding lights too shiny to see anything. But he assumes he does it for the exhilaration he feels when his arms lift to press firmly against the trimmed tightened strings.

Not to be prudish but he was amazing, he remembered in high school when they were invited for the first time. The chosen piece he’d decided to play was Sonata No. 9 'Kreutzer'. Oikawa’s never really been invested in the musical arts, or Beethoven at that. Hardly capable of carrying a tune, he was nearly tone-deaf when it came to his voice. The verdict was that the possibility of being able to bribe Akaashi out of his room was slim. Whilst, he can be extremely persuasive, the need for Akaashi wasn’t severe. It was only ten, and it already as if hours have gone by. Unbelievably, he sniffles a yawn, stretching to unfold his arms from stiffening position they’ve been held for a while now.

New York’s brutish temperature we’re harsh, the heat dropping in the middle of the day. The wind was hauling him, curling unkempt hair into a tornado. Despite the beanie plastered to the top of his head, it slips against his scalp. Every day at Times Square is crowded, he happened to choose the worse time to visit the busy streets. Cursing at the flow of people crossing the road, the nearby Louis Vuitton shop overriding with hurried shoppers scoring for the best handbag half priced. Five bucks say their fake, or a really bad choice bargain hanging the 50% rack. What a waste of money, an original sold price at 2,000 but only lowered back a thousand dollars; see, a waste?

He stops by the convenience store on Houston Street, the cracked bell giving a shattered cry when he steps into the door. Alerting the cashier at the front, they look up for a split second before looking back down the newspaper with a pipe dropping between their cracked lips. Withdrawing the crumpled grocery list at the bottom of his sweater jacket, he smooths out the cramped handwritten writing. Small loops of u’s and w’s almost illegible, just ordering pizza or something would be a lot easier. Yet, he takes a shaky breath and heads into the crappy Asian meal aisle. Throwing the miso and soy sauce bottle into the green basket he attained upon first entering Tooru skips through the list. They’ve already got rice at home, but the beef strips and tofu were farther down the row of vegetables as he grabs the onions and scallions. The cashier gives him short glances periodically as he browses through the shelves. Is the actually nervous that Tooru wasn’t going to pay? He shuffles past the meat, finishing up his rounds with the cabbage. Sweeping past the sake, he stops. To hell with it-and snatches two bottles before taking it to the counter.

The man with peach fuzz poking out underneath his chin, takes his things to the register, as Tooru takes out his wallet, the cost was expensive, Kuroo better be cooking the best tasting Hot pot for what it's worth.

“That’ll be twenty dollars.” the cashier says, as the total pops up on the neon green screen. Riffling for the last twenty in his wallet, Tooru hands it to him as the transaction is complete.

The scuffled beat up tv propped up by bare-thread wires hovers in the right corner beside the counter. The image is slightly dizzy but seeable. He cranes his eyes to the channel streaming. Some celebrity reporter broadcasting only a few blocks away. A glimpse of Iwaizumi in the crowd, as they zoom in and the next words they say are blocked out. Tooru’s frozen, it wasn’t like for him to around during a popular time like this unless he’s begging for the attention. Formal per usual dressed in his atypical outfit, the glistening golden bracelet reflects off the camera.

“You alright young man?” and turning back to grab his groceries he gives a forced smile.

“I apologize, have a good day.” he spoke, running in a stride out the sliding door, as the bell chimes once more.

Taking the bus carrying a truck of a load of groceries hurt his arms along with the backpack that was stuffed with his last class binders, and happened to be digging into his back. The apartment was only a five minutes walk from the bus stop, and by the time he made it, there were beads of sweat falling down his face. Tooru grumbles at the locked door handle, haven’t seen Tsukishima’s car, he must still be in classes. Letting himself in with the spare key left underneath the mat, it reeks of the strawberry filters they bought weeks back online. Oikawa bought the apartment a few years ago before graduating high school, it had been on the market. Tsukishima coincidentally was searching for a roommate to buy a house so it was perfect timing. Not to mention but his sister adores him to death, for his birthday they always head down to Brooklyn to visit. But he likes to point out that the only reason why he bothers coming every year is for her Strawberry Shortcake. (he also hated to admit it but next to Kuroo, her baking is mouthwatering).

Being a bit rundown, at first sight, the interior has changed tremendously. The once beige colored walls now a pleasant light grey. Framed are paintings that were too valuable to discard so they were hung unsystematically, though the paintings have been to exposed to the sunlight, beginning to fade. The speckled Verbena flowers wilting to the left too much beside the table. Most likely need to be watered, he kicks out off his shoes in the entryway. The floor is dusty, collecting at the sole of his socked feet. There’s dust in small corners where Tsukishima never bothers to clean. Putting the bags to the kitchen, he unloads them into the refrigerator thankful that the missing ingredients he speculated were still in their place.

Tooru desperately needed a shower, the last shower he took was right after Ukai’s when took that blissful one at Iwaizumi’s hotel room. Well more like his hotel. Grabbing a towel from the closet, which is thankfully stocked, he heads into the shared bathroom. Stripping the rather repugnant smelling sweater, he starts the shower. Reminding himself of the last joy of jet streams and the hot water setting. Cranking it to the hottest temperature his skin could withstand, he slips underneath. Immediately wetting his hair, he stands there for a good minute. The water would run out in ten minutes, so he began to lather the soap onto his hands.

Tell me you want.

His closed eyes burst wide open at the thought. The familiar voice forcing him to turn off the water. The silence was deafening as he overlooks the imagined whisper. But it happens again, this time tickling his ear, and he gives out a muffled moan.

You _like that?_

Strong arms grasp his shoulders, the thought of wet hot tongue pushing its way into his tongue, invasive. Lips trailing down his neck, slow and steady. And Tooru gasps, hands trailing down his neck. The water is incredibly hot and he’s itching all over. Iwaizumi’s eyes focused on him, and him only. His stubble pressed under his throat, as he catches his lips between his teeth. He could only imagine Iwaizumi giving a sultry smile, and his hand slaps the wall unable to control himself. He wonders how his Japanese is, and the things he would say, with the accent.

_..Shit..just like that._

_More, Tooru._

Water pounds in his ear as his hand move to take his aching coo in hand, withering against the cold tile. His mouth moves to form words but he can’t. The feel of his cock rubbing against own, whispering into his ear. Oh how badly he wanted him to fuck him again the wall desperately. His hands go to caress the smooth stubble along his jaw, eyes dazed, attempting to trace every piece of him. Starting from his broad shoulders that lavish in those suits he wears every day. Pawing at his chest he moans as he picks up the rapid pace.

“Iwa-chan..” he groans out softly.

Look at me and tell me what you want.

He looks up, the steam poking his eyes, making them go dry but he doesn’t care at this point. It was silent except for his moans, as he swallowed. If Iwaizumi was here, he’d fuck him restless against the shower, and he’d let him. The water dripping from the taint stomach that teases him when he stretches his back. Through the slacks, he could tell that at one point in his life he was an athlete. His calves are muscular and well rounded. The robe would slip from his body exposing his tawny skin. It was sunkissed and a darker shade than the rest of the Iwaizumi’s. Would he smile, and sweep him into a searing kiss? Tongues dancing around each other, as he’d clutch for very touch he could get.

When he cums its fast and pleasurable. He hunches over, grabbing for any railing to steady him. His legs were shaking like jelly and his hands were sticky. Oikawa felt dirty, thinking about him. Sliding at the marble walls it chills down his spine as the hot water rains down. Rinsing his hand a handful of times before he reaches for the soap, his arm falls back.

It was official, Oikawa was attached.

*

 

He doesn’t come that night, but Oikawa isn’t too worried. Why should he care if Iwaizumi was going to show up at the bar like last time? The guy probably has important family business matters to attend to way more important than Oikawa. The bar isn’t as busy as it been for the past days. And he’s grateful, for the first half of his shift he lounges in the back toying with his computer figuring out how to start writing his Lab analysis. He chooses to leave his glasses behind, preferring to wear his tonight. The night begins slow, time stopping minute by minute before the sixty second renews itself fits another minute. The cycle gets tired after some time, almost like watching paint dry. Nothing excited about it.

Soon his shift starts and he’s glad when Ukai calls him out to haul his ass at the bar. Serving drinks distracts him, and he’s glad that he's too preoccupied to worry. But clearly, Ukai doesn’t appreciate the lack of work and knows something’s up sends him home an hour earlier than anticipated.

“You deserve a break kid. Go get high or whatever kids your age do these days.” Waving him off when he promises to cover an extra shift next time.

That’s how he ends up an hour and a half earlier than planned. The front door smelling of buttered scallions and tofu. His mouth was drooling as he pushed open the door. Chucking his shoes off once again, they land in the threshold of the entrance. The scent coming from the hot pot is promising and he’s fully established that the kitchen isn’t on fire so that’s a good sign.

“I’m home.” He calls out as he gets a response and tiptoes through the living room, some jeopardy game show airing on the tv loudly.

With a spoon in his hand and towel Theon across his shoulder, Kuroo seems at ease as he waves to Oikawa. Falling back on the barstool Tsukishima falls back fork Kuroo’s side, joining him at the bar stool next to him. With the intel jazz playing in the background per Kuro’s request, he sniffled a yawn.

Flipping the rice from the pan, Kuroo squints at him. “Long day?”

“Oh along those lines.” He answers, absently flicking the chopsticks in his hands back and forth.

“How’s the old man Ukai, not dying from the number of cigarettes he inhaled every day.” Kuroo snickers at the senior, and his problem with pulling out a newly lit cigarette every five seconds.

For some reason, Iwaizumi accidentally pops up into his mind. His rough hands skirting to reach over the dashboard to prop a cigarette into his mouth. Driving in his Bentley, watching. He flickers with the lighter bending his neck to meet the top of the cigar to the baby open flame. His hands shake when he held the cancer stick, facial expression relaxes as he takes a long joint. Oikawa hated smoking, did it his freshman year and drowned his mouth in his mouth wash. But whenever Iwaizumi did it, he looked peaceful, calming him down. His firm muscles of his jaw relaxed and he closed his eyes. Fingers beating to the steering wheel, assorted with titanium and golden tinted Yurman rings. He rarely took them off, stuck on his right index finger. They contrast towards the green moss color of his eyes, flaring the darker shades of his pupils.

“You're just being petty because he hasn’t offered you a job as the head chef yet.” And Kuroo indignantly shrugs, a loose smile rugged in his face.

“What can I say, I’m a modest person.” Responding at the incredulous comment Tsukishima sniggers a short chortle.

In the same moment, his phone chimes and they share the same intrigued nagging stare. Sliding the phone, his heart thumps.

 **Iwa-Chan:** if you ’re free, how about that coffee you owe me?

He has to take moment to search for his glasses to confirm the message, shoving them on his face. The phone slips from his sweating hands, dropping onto the counter, as he quickly recovers in embarrassment. Shedding some remaining dignity, Tooru avoids their curious eyes and slides back open his phone.

Tooru: are you asking me on a date Iwa-chan?

Biting his lip, as he hits send. Was that too bold of him?

He feels the repeated shrill vibration on the table and he swiftly lifts it up to check the notification. His heart quickens, and Tooru hovers over to make sure Tsukishima doesn’t read the message.

 **Iwa-chan:** don’t be a pompous ass I’m asking you out for coffee.

He could imagine him resting against his chair, surrounded by piles of paperwork, a possible vein popping out his head.

The next chime comes in almost thirty seconds later.

 **Iwa-chan:** as friends. Strictly friends.

 **Tooru:** No quickie?...

 **Iwa-chan:** what the hell Oikawa?

 **Tooru:** ‘(

 **Tooru** : alright no quickie, but you’re paying.

 **Iwa-chan:** fine, good night.

 **Tooru** : sweet dreams Iwa-chan!

Closing his phone, he finally pushes himself away from his phone, as he glances up to see both giving concerning looks. The hot pot is steaming up the kitchen, as it begins to finish cooking. His stomach grumbles “smells good Kuroo.” Kuroo stares in half shock and half disbelief, shaking his head in utter disappointment. Oikawa squawks at the unexpected response. Tsukishima leaves the seat to drop his arm and slings it around Kuroo’s free shoulder not being used a rack. Tucking his head into the slope of his neck, as Kuroo kisses the top of the blondes head. He mimics them, shoving his finger his throat, faking his life disgust at the sudden PDA.

“He’s attached to his sugar daddy,” Tsukishima says suddenly, and Oikawa coughs.

Holding his shirt, he wipes his mouth, “he’s not my sugar daddy, that jokes old.” Simultaneously Kuroo takes out the plates from the cabinets gracefully balancing them on his arm. Snatching the chopsticks from Tsukishima’s hand he breaks them up, “and I’m definitely not attached.” He adds pointing the chopsticks threateningly his way.

“He hooked up with Iwaizumi Hajime, only New York’s famous playboy.” He explains to Kuroo, and grumpily Oikawa stuffs his mouth of Hot Pot to prevent himself from replying with a snide comeback.

“Good for you, you need to get laid. You're a bitch when you're horny.” who only grins widely, and Tsukishima agrees beside him.

“Is that true? Does he speak the truth?” Tooru demands and Tsukishima attempts to contain his laughter as Oikawa shoves tofu into his mouth.

“Well for one, you were grinning like a dork.” Tsukishima starts to spoon feed Kuroo bits of food, as he licks his lips.

“I can smile like a normal person.” he quipped.

“You can always talk to us, you know that Tooru.” Tsukishima takes his hand, giving him a rare smile that only immerses when he’s truly being genuine.

“Twice in a row Tsukki is being nice to me, what’s next, is he going to give me a big kiss to make the pain go away?” Tooru prodded and he only returns to his neutral phlegmatic manner.

Returning to his food, the meat becomes dry in his mouth, losing his appetite. Observing the couple in front, as they tenderly whisper into the other’s ear, a touch of a smile on Tsukishima’s face whenever Kuroo says something. A small touch here and there; once on the arm, and the recent one a stroke on the neck. Despite being constantly trapped by the couple almost every day, this barely inflicts him personally. Tooru didn’t mind the third person in the apartment, though standing here as the third wheel now, wasn’t his vision of how he would be spending his night. Letting it go, he takes his dish to the sink, interrupting the flow.

“Well thank you Tetsu-chan for the delicious meal but I think it’s time i retreat to bed, early classes tomorrow.” he yawns, swiping his phone off the counter.

Tsukishima doesn’t question him anymore, to his luck. “Good night.”

*

 

The cafe isn’t too large, it’s an on-campus coffee shop that bakes the best milk bread he’s ever tasted. Not only is it in the center of the university but in case Tooru ever loses his job at the bar he can be sweeping floors for ten dollars an hour right at school. It’s extremely hot, peculiar to the weather they’ve been having recently, and he’s exchanged his jeans for his boardwalk shorts much like everybody else. He sits underneath a gigantic umbrella covering most of the table span. It’s yellow and kind of unattractive but it does the job. The sun is surprisingly bright, as he struggles to read his computer screen, the brightness unreadable even under the shade.

Oikawa pulls out his textbook, hoping to read better when all the sudden a honk interrupts him. Black limo parks into an empty space, right where people could see them. Stepping out, he could smell the cologne even from a distance away. Swapping out his heavy tailored suit, he’s dressed casually. As if he expected not to draw enough attention, the same pair of Tom Fords on the tip of his nose. A dark henley shirt fitted around his forearms, the collarless hem teased a strip of skin. The first button cut open, as his shoulders were rolled back.

“Oikawa.” He says, approaching his table and Tooru makes room of his papers.

Saddening,“ Iwa-chan, I see you changed into civilian clothes, though I really do prefer you in a suit and tie.” he says with a sigh

Peeling off his sunglasses he places them onto his collar as last time, he sits down as the waiter comes over to take their drink orders.

“A flat white and French press.” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa nods for confirmation.

Once she walks away, he turns back to him, “how did you know?” And he only shrugs.

“Lucky guess.”

The crowd around them isn’t as swarmed then yesterday, and Oikawa spys Iwaizumi fiddling with the pocket of his pants, hands twitching.

“This is a public area, you can smoke.” He says, and Iwaizumi blinks back in surprise.

“Nothing just got lost in thought.”

Their drinks come and he’s glad to be able to move past the awkward pause. Iwaizumi take a sip as he does the same when his phone rings. Apologetic, He stands up to take the call. As Oikawa watches he admires the panels of muscle that tightens every time twist his back. He never thought that they’d be hanging out so normally without one ripping off the other's clothing. Sparing himself the reminiscence from yesterday, Iwaizumi’s voice carries as the conversation goes on.

Finally, he hangs up walking back to Iwaizumi in a hurried fashion. Iwaizumi was holding his anger, he could tell. It wasn’t good news most likely.

“That was my father, they need me back at the office.” He sounds sheepish and pitiful.

“So I’m assuming that you can’t stay?” He doesn’t want to sound desperate but it does anyway.  
He fiercely apologizes, before putting his glasses back one and with a half-hearted wave he watches him disappear.

He dials the number, only taking approximately ten seconds to answer before the receiver clicks with a pause.

“Keiji are you busy?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ibreatheakaashi)
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> [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/Ibreatheakaashi)


	4. Please don't wait I'm not coming home tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> friends don’t always help in some cases they’ve both discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am! I tried to not post a month later lol instead only two weeks after. I apologize for a shorter chapter, heads up as to the next one will be as well, due to reaching the end of the fic 😭 
> 
> Thank you all for the love and support throughout this fic and I hope you continue to support me till the bitter end! 
> 
> ALSO! Tysm for reaching over 1k hits it’s a big accomplishment that I never thought it’d achieve and I’d like to thank you all!!! XD
> 
> And I also made a [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/clhulbert-us/playlist/0NTFn6MvcnYB6C6fDy6vyr?si=4d1kHnMYSfaxz3ELYu0kiA) a while back for this fic you wanna listen to it!

The dread is already starting to pool it’s way into his body.

He knows that this is most likely his father, though really he’s been caught by surprise a series of times. The first time the businessman called him in the middle of the day was when he was eighteen. Since then, his number is foremost the first to ring in the family. Kiyoko had called him, an important emergency meeting back at the enterprise. This part he feared the most, unless an unknown client had called abrupt and sudden. Hajime’s job was to take Iwaizumi Inc. future potential clients into the circle. Nothing more than listening to men and women in stiff clothing walking around with a briefcase. They’d swiftly chauffeur their degrees of well education. A quick skim of their university studies: business, economical studies, etc.

The easiest part was pretending his interest lied in hiring them. He draw them in, eager to welcome the client into the company. Now the family name isn’t damned for its slight fraud, but it’s a simplistic tactic to pawn them into the investments. This area of expertise Iwaizumi habited to draw away from, the beginning was solely his role and he left the rest to his father. Currently leaving the finalized part became already too much, and Hajime’s late nights with the pleasant company of Balvenie Single Malt Scotch Whiskey.

Of course today would be no exception.

The continuance of the fidgeting with the wristwatch he chosen to wear today irritates him to the point of where he unlatches the clasp in a repeated rhythm. It was a gift given to him from a while ago, he doesn’t wear it often, too many memories buried along with the golden trinket. It weighs heavy around his wrist, and he debates of taking it off. Iwaizumi deftly massages the thin glass separating the foreign numbers, and the ticking clock. He wondered if Oikawa thought he was an ass, he would think that too if he had to stand himself up. Reckoning the idea that Oikawa probably thinks what all the stories say, he had no argument. Iwaizumi was desperate to get the know the man, with his overwhelming pride and superficial smile, it rose Iwaizumi to many questions.

Did he have any siblings, where were his parents? How could he afford for the college tuitions, it would be impolite to bring up his questions. Hajime wasn’t entitled to ask anything, especially since he’s only known the man for a short while. The pending questions spins around circles and he chases headless after it.

His phone is on silent, though persistent vibrations so familiar don’t fail to drive him senseless. In the clearing, without Japanese oak trees in Hokkaido, it was grassy land surrounded by cement. Rather driving through the garage he signals for his driver to pull through the front. When he steps out, the gentle breeze knocks off his feet and he feels at odds standing front of his father's building underdressed. The more appropriate phrase would be standing out even more than he did when he first entered form the revolving doors he’s been so comforted by the rush of wind. Upon entering the building, as a child he’d pretend it was a carousel,the only problem is he could never get off the ride. No matter what the gears would churn faster and faster, as he’d scream with delight holding to the railing of the doors. Once he could finally step off, he found himself dizzy.

Carefully folding his sunglasses into his shirt, the exerting chill from the air conditioning circling overhead the lobby. He wishes he opted for something more warmer especially with the dropping temperature at the office.

“He’s waiting in his office sir.” Kiyoko says when he passes by the desk, and he can’t help but wipe his sweaty palms off his trousers.

Boarding on the elevator, is one of the shortest rides it’s ever taken to get to his father's floor. Unlike his office the whole floor is one main office, almost the span of a gym, sectioned into different departments for each of his employees. Courteous, he would call it. He runs his hands through the marble wood that ascending along the rails leading to his room. The same engraved cherry wood color, the slightest hue of an ugly red shade. Approximately, Hajime has walked through these doors all his life, each time growing older and older, shoulders heavy of the weighing burden.

Intricate and elaborate, they were his mothers choosing to bear the designs on the part where people pass by. The overhead chandelier, wide chrome glass illuminated and shining. Similar to his own, in the center laid the Couristan antique rug, carefully beneath the desk. To his surprise, when the chair swivels to reveal not his father but another person.

“Issei?” His mouth stretches as he couldn’t help but smile widely.

He stands suited up in a business suit that only Hanamaki could’ve given to him. Tall shoulders and thick eyebrows that rise when he takes in Iwaizumi. His slim figure crouched uncomfortably tucked into the chair, as he gets up waving the cup of bourbon loosely in his hand.

“You’re a sore sight for the eyes aren’t you?” He claps his back as they join for a grasping hug.

“I’d say the same for you, why aren’t you in Sendai?” They lock fists and Matsukawa grins.

“Taking a break, for a while at least.”

“Where’s my father? If he knew that you were sitting in his chair he’d fire you.” Looking around to find no sight of the burly man.

“I knew if I didn’t say it was urgent you wouldn’t come to visit your best friend. I have to say, I didn’t think it would work that well.”

Grabbing the glass away from his hands, he slides onto his desk pushing away the discarded files organized in an array in the corner. Iwaizumi acknowledges the extra glass beside him but doesn’t take it. Again, he’s already had his fill for the day. Only, Matsukawa allows a swallowed stare and he finds his eyes wandering to the series of photographs against the mahogany walls.

Identical to the ones that hang in the family hall of his old house before he moved out his hotel room. He’s reached out several times to touch the parchment canvas that the oil paints spill to recreate an old resurfaced recollection of memories. Iwaizumi undecidedly accepts the glass but inspects the hazy tint of nut brown colored bourbon.

“This is my father's best bourbon: Old Fitzgerald.” He says, Matsukawa quirks an eyebrow.

“It’s never stopped you before.”

He huffs a forced chuckle, “Well one of us has to stay sober between the two of us.”

“Speaking of him, how’s the old man?” Matsukawa plays with the black pen that rests on top of the files of folders, twirling it between his middle and index finger.

They share the same grim look, “I can’t answer that question, especially if you already the answer.”

Standing up, he digs through the his father’s closet to change into, knowing that he most likely wouldn’t be able to leave again until late. Rummaging with his head buried into the row of suits, he and his father shared the same build, a bit taller as his brother. Iwaizumi unhangs the Charcoal grey Tommy Hilfiger suit off his hanger, unbuttoning the henley he wore.

Throwing the shirt in Matsukawa’s direction, in protest. “Isn’t that your father’s best evening suit?”

“It’ll take more then one suit to notice his closet is empty.” buttoning up the collared shirt, he flips up the collar, finishing the last button.

Cuffing the wrists together, he stands in front of the mirror, Matsukawa in the foreground, smirking behind. Fitting into the pants, he chooses a random tie that matches enough to not look like a fool. Flipping the tie into a knot, securing it, as he’s done several times in his life.

“A windsor knot, you do never really change.” Matsukawa murmured.

The possibility that Iwaizumi would understand what he meant was unlikely, and he overlooks it as a quirky comment. However, once he returns he discovers that he’s cocked his feet on his desk, contrary to how Hanamaki did days ago. Only, his legs are longer and almost drape across the table, reminding him of a certain tall figure. Iwaizumi reaches over to pour himself another glass, repeating the same movements he shared, the same flick of the wrist, expertly tipping the alcohol into the crystalline glass.

“Are you seeing somebody?” Matsukawa sets his glass down, fasting his own tie, staring at him directly.

The numerous of times he’s been asked this question, he can only wonder what Hanamaki told him. Together the pair were consisting up in his business, it’s no wonder he’s curious. Or extremely nosy. Taking the glass out of his hand, he sets it down with a snort.

“I’m not answering that.”

“I’m back for what two weeks, we have to catch up,” he urges, while Iwaizumi only laughs.

He was right, the fact that he was taking a break from the marketing of Iwaizumi inc. meant he was really here to stay for some time. It appeared to be that he tried to maintain his mouth from blabbing too much to Matsukawa, but Hanamaki was just as much a gossip as the rest of the employees in this office. Drawing his breath, he focuses on clipping his watch together, ensconcing to replace the wrist watch with the silver Cartier, it was slightly more masculine then the gold pair he previously worn. Most likely the accessory would look better on someone with more feminine features, thinner wrists, stronger bone features.

“Hanamaki came by a day or two ago, when are you two going to get married?” he squints at him, and Matsukawa gives a one-sided shrug.

To his understanding, they’ve been dating for over a year and a half, with Matsukawa’s traveling, their visits have grown limited. With the company’s finance thriving, he hasn’t seen his best friend is nearly three months. It was kind enough for him to visit Iwaizumi first, though he supposes Hanamaki doesn’t know he’s back. Months ago, they were strolling down Manhattan as he noticed his eyes catching on engagement rings inside of Swarovski. They weren’t too flashy, unlike the rings seen on the jumbotrons and latched onto millionaires fingers. Silver bands engraved with latin words that Hajime never bothered to take the language despite how disappointed his mother was.

“We’re already in a good place, and your father is giving me a promotion.” his lips grow tight, and his arms cross.  
Now, this information shocked him, most times his father informed him of promotions or any intel on new hires. But to keep his from Hajime, it did seem like his father. Narrowing his eyes, he stays quiet. The perpetual silence ends after a honk from below disrupts the greedy stares.

“I heard from Hanamaki you met someone, are they any good?” his voice drops to a peevish whisper.

Wrinkling his nose, Hajime replies. “It’s nothing, we hooked up once, I’m not having this conversation again.”

He yawns, “so boring, Makki already said enough. Though I have to know, what’s he like?” he begs, spinning around in the chair.

He thinks back to the first time he met him, what felt like years ago considering how much he knows about Oikawa. He works as a bartender for one of the most popular joints in midtown New York. He likes mild spicy foods, things too sweet, and animals-(he knows this last part while driving up to the university when a furry dog had wondered up to Oikawa and his face melts as he gushed about the fuzzball). He would probably like Taiki, his eight year old Pomeranian.

How many instances when they’ve met up had Iwaizumi wanted-craved to drag him upstairs to his hotel just like the first night and fuck him senseless? Though those fantasies have been short-lived, it’s been proven they do have terrible luck with being able meet up without any interruptions. He was a dork, judging from what classes he took, who the hell takes Astrophysics? His business classes that he was forced to study weren’t that hard, but Oikawa was well-known at NYU, popular even.

His body is dainty, but not extremely fragile, muscle built behind those calves. He contains the same upturned pompous smile that turns into a hungry punch in the gut, and unfortunately a turn on. Most cases, he has the nice smile on his face, when he’s surrounded by strangers, or left in a situation where Oikawa is forced to fend for himself. It’s mostly insecurity that wills him to work and he suspects his family background isn’t perfect; forgoing his prediction.

Nevertheless, the verdict was that Hajime planned on getting to know him.

“He’s interesting, nothing like I’ve been with before.” he leans forward to straighten his jacket.

Matsukawa hums, lifting up his chin. “Has your father met him?” and Iwaizumi gives a scornful look.

“Sorry, just had to ask.” he argues, holding his hands up pleading.

Airly, he rolls his eyes, “it’s casual, he doesn’t need to know every person that I bring up to my bedroom.”

But if there was a chance in which he really did the guy, would he? His family wasn’t prejudice but at times judgemental, and he couldn’t blame them. With the people from New York City, everyone’s constantly watching.  
Iwaizumi has endured the brutal system of society and now the things people ever bother to look his way was for money and a good time.  
  
Causal, not casual. Catching feeling, falling in love. Utter bullshit if it’s just sex in the end.

“I have a client that’s coming in at any moment, get out of here.” He shoos him away, getting up as well.

He rearranges the glasses, placing them on the shelves. Shutting the door behind him he turns back to Matsukawa, “get out of here Matsu, I’ll text you later.” And he smirks, striding down the hallways as a couple employees wave at the man.

At his own office, he slides open the balcony door, letting fresh air enter the room. God it felt so good, to not be entrapped with such hot air in his lungs. He had about an hour to spare before his mother’s client would stop by. An hour to smoke approximately four cigarettes. So he begins, pulling one of out the cardboard box that he leaves inside of his desk-for emergencies. Flipping the flame to the tip, the smoke rises mixing with the wind that sweeps through his hair.

Inhaling, he rests his arms on the railing that holds him from falling hundred feet off the ground. Normally he doesn’t smoke before an appointment but he hasn’t touched a cigarette since now for almost 24 hours.  
He curls his shoulders, tucking his head to breathe. This wasn’t good, far from good.

“Fuck.” He whispers.

*

Hearing Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto when Akaashi first played it for him, he was dumbfounded. Not because the composition was complicated but because of its tricky notes. Tooru understands why after his bow releases from the string the crowd grows wild. He’s experienced the same in high school, a high school athlete until that career path ended.

Sitting across from him as he fiddled with the strings of his violin, he hasn’t said a word since Oikawa came over. There’s a cup of steaming tea, Oolong being the only flavor Akaashi bothers to stash in his cupboards. It’s herbal scents seeping through the gradient kettle.

One thing Tooru always appreciated about Akaashi’s apartment was how composed and organized it was. The layout was a studio, with a confined bedroom including room for a queen and a small bathroom attached. The walls were a earthly dirt brown, plain and to Akaashi’s taste. In the corner is a compartment for his violin and music stand, low classical music playing softly in the background.

Piano Sonata No:11.

“...Oikawa, you haven’t taken a drink from your tea.” Oikawa blinks, gasping apologetically and clutching the delicate cup.

But he’s not thirsty, had taken his caffeine to go. But not to rude he took the cup of tea when Akaashi has been brewing it before he arrived. Maybe he deserved the silent treatment, but again Akaashi didn’t excel in the art of conversation.  
“Is that a vase of roses?” He nods towards the only lovely thing in the room. The no longer wilted red roses rest in a creamy lilac vase.

“It is, but you're deluding.” And Oikawa clicks his tongue, hands moving up the painted teacup.

“How presumptive of you.” Tooru snickers and Akaashi lets a exasperated sigh escape.

“Tooru..” He starts and he quick silences him.

“Don’t say my name with that pity in your voice. I didn’t come here to be babied, I came here to be with my best friend.” He flinches away, but Akaashi knows better.

Akaashi knows better than anyone when he gets like this, rambling and nervous that he should wait for the storm to brew over. When he was younger, Oikawa used to come into his dorm at midnight only to pace around his bedroom, wrinkles under his eyes. Often, he came for advice, never about his love life that’s what Tsukishima was to complain for. Oikawa seeked comfort in the oddest ways and now he needed someone to listen to him.

Oikawa halts, taking a deep breathe, fixing his messy strands of hair that have made their way in front of his face. Seriously, a comb was in order and Oikawa doesn’t ask for it. He massages his palms, letting the sweat in his hands grind in his palms. There was no need to be nervous, it was Akaashi. Exactly Akaashi, the same person who applied to the same university so he wouldn’t be alone.

“I’m in trouble.” He blurts out.

“Well, I figured out that much.” He sarcastically mutters.

“No, you don’t understand. It’s serious!” Tooru squeaks out overwhelmed with frustration.

Yet, he holds his chuckle, neatly hiding it behind his mouth. And as much as Tooru enjoys the moments when Akaashi smiles, even tiniest crack of a smile is enjoyable but not now. “Don’t laugh ‘kaashi, it’s not funny.” He snaps.

“Go home and get some sleep it might help.”  
“Talk to me, anything to get my mind off of Iwa-chan.” He begs, and Akaashi pierces his lips, before reluctantly swiftly moving to collect the now chilled teacup.

“Iwa-chan?” He starts to register and he shuts him down with a glare. “Fine, be that way. What do you want to know?”

“How’s Bokuto?” he suggests, bringing up the wide-eyed boxer, training at the local alley down in Brooklyn, closer to his hometown.

Together, Akaashi and Bokuto have been together for almost four years. Childhood friends long before Tooru knew either of them. He tends to think that the only reason why Akaashi followed was for Bokuto’s sake. The boxing ring was supported by Akaashi’s family, whom are very much like the Iwaizumi’s. He was fed everything, the good education, the tuition to attend private school. Originally, he was even selected on a scholarship to Juilliard but suddenly declined and went to NYU for their music program. Akaashi was the unprovoked type of person, hardly anything affected him so efficiently. Unless it was Bokuto, and Tooru’s been surrounded by the pair to witness Akaashi’s guarded, calm demeanor all fall apart.

Sufficing the details would be unnecessary, they were both alike, Tsukishima and Akaashi. Tooru was the wedge in the middle, dividing their group. “He’s good, the boxing ring has been doing well.” he says.

Oikawa notices the way his eyes light up at the mention of his boyfriend, and he smiles. Then a shattered cry claps outside, and the kettle rattles. He looks out the window to find the gentle raindrops begin to fall. It was a five minute walk away from his apartment but he hadn’t planned to get stuck in the rain.

“I should probably head home before the rain worsens.” he mumbles, and in unison he rises.

“Be safe Tooru, call me when you get home.” pulling him into a tight hug, Tooru wraps his arms around his waist.

Shutting the door behind he scurries down the stairs, feet smacking the cement ground. He holds on to his backpack, as the rain gets heavier. The flooded sidewalk splash when he runs by. With no umbrella, his thin blouse wettens, and his breath quickens. Reaching his destination finally he struggles to find his keys as they rattle in his pocket. The room is silent, dishes from last night rumbling in the dishwasher, and Tooru drops his keys at the counter. The leftovers in the fridge are already emptied, and it’s too dangerous to get someone to deliver take-out by now.

He scrubs his damp hair that starts to dry at his scalp, the effort to dry it is difficult as his stomach rumbles as loud as the thunder. As he searches for edible things to eat, cursing Tsukishima for not leaving anything for him to eat before sleeping over at Kuroo’s. The shrill chime of his doorbell awakens him and he lightly pads through the doorway to open the door. In front of him, soaking in a state Tooru thoroughly enjoyed the sight of, was Iwaizumi. A signature charcoal grey suits now wet, his shoulders covered in water. In his hands are what appears to be groceries, a lot of them. His pant legs stick to his sides, and his combed hair is now hanging down.

Shellshocked, he stands there while the towel collapses to the floor. He pays no attention to open the door widely as he rushes in with a grateful look on his face. Droplet fall to the floor and Iwaizumi leads himself to the kitchen. But Oikawa is still shocked running after to clean up the mess.

“You hungry?” he asks, and Oikawa is unable to say anything but nod.

“What are you doing, how did you find my apartment?” he stutters, regaining focus.

Iwaizumi tucks his chin, “it wasn’t hard to find, all it took was to ask around.”

Or you swayed them by getting them to tell you where I live.

“What are you doing?” he repeated, leaning against the frame of the kitchen. Watching as he unravels his mystery groceries to reveal it’s take out. Looking like Lo Mein, he snatches it from his grasps. Inspecting if he tolds a noodle with a chopstick, “is this your way of being nice?”

“Close enough, it’s to make up for earlier. Though I’d appreciate if you took it, I just spend fifty dollars on the best chinese food in New York.” he says smugly, and Oikawa considers of throwing it away for his compassion.

But Tooru couldn’t say no to free food.

His idiotic self takes the container, and opens it up as the smell of spicy noodles flow into his nostrils. God, if he wasn’t so hungry, he wouldn’t be so vulnerable. Iwaizumi glimpses at him like a hawk before cracking open his own box and begins to eat. With each titter of the rain hits the roof, Iwaizumi hums to himself as if his drenched body had no affecting factor to him eating Chinese takeout in Oikawa’s kitchen.

Digging into his egg rolls, this silence grows unsettling. Tooru dislikes how quiet he was, usually he would be made some sort of remark by now. Instead he keeps to himself with a contempt smile plastered to his face. Swirling the noodles his utensils, he clears his throat and he looks up.

“How was your day?” He asked weakly. What a horrible attempt to initiate a conversation.

Still, Iwaizumi hints a snort and almost frustratedly scratches his head. “Hectic, my best friend just came back from Tokyo on a business trip.” He laughs distantly.

He cocks his head, “Iwa-chan has friends?”

“Don’t be like that, of course I have friends. What, do you live alone like some hermit?” He asks between his slurping his own set of Lo Mein.

He fishes inside to find more rice, popping the styrofoam plastic that concealed the sweet and sour soup. The lid slides back satisfyingly and he draws open the drawer with the spoon.

Iwaizumi shrugs like the gaudy guy he is. Humble but dismissive.

“Of course not, I have a roommates who’s currently shacking up with his boyfriend.” He says flippantly.

Iwaizumi eye doesn’t twitch at the word ‘boyfriend’ as he expected to. Though he sincerely wonders if his parents have made arrangements to marry him off yet. He’d make a good housewife, probably take of the children, feed them a tasty breakfast. Kiss the faceless wife goodbye as he closed the door to the multimillion dollar mansion. His nameless children would hug him goodbye with sparkling green eyes that they’d inherit from their father. Is that the future that Iwaizumi has in mind?

“Oi, you alright?” Iwaizumi snaps back and Oikawa returns with a gaping smile.

“Nothing, nothing!” He chirps and he squints at him dubiously.

But he can’t help but wonder what it had been like if things weren’t like this, how they are now. If Iwaizumi hasn’t stumbled into Ukai’s bar and horribly flirted with him. Would things be like the way are now, what step would happen next. No steps have been taken to move forward- or to move back. Tooru can only be so thankful if he wasn’t so hungry to be with Iwaizumi. Sneakily he gets a side glance of him, the water still visible on in his hair, dribbling to the back of his neck. He really wanted to reach out and touch the slope of his neck, to caress and gasp for air when they kiss just like last time.

Tooru chooses to shut up and finish his food which he does in no time. The trash that remain gets thrown away and Iwaizumi refuses to take back the leftovers claiming they belong in Oikawa's empty fridge. While he closes the containers, Iwaizumi politely washes the dirty ones. To his extraordinary luck, he’s delivers a perfect view of his back. He wonders form the Jumbotrons franchising him buckets of money for him posing in an overpriced suit, he knew how to wear them well.

Lightly he creeps up, slouching his arms around his shoulders, leaning against hard muscle. Iwaizumi turns only an inch and he seizes the opportunity. “Did you really think I agreed to let you in my apartment only to feed me dinner?” He whispers.

“It was of good graces.” He hums, not fully facing Oikawa.

Defying the challenge he kisses the shell of his ear, making his way down to his neck. A small clotted birthmark placed below his ear, something he’s never seen before. So he focuses on that area nibbling in the exposed piece of skin. Sucking and twisting it in his ear, and he can see Iwaizumi loose posture. He’s winning so far.

“Play with me.” Tooru taunts with a shallow command.

And he obliged dropping the forgotten dish to entwine and thread his fingers through his hair in order to hold onto him better. Groaning into his mouth wistfully he decomposes under his touch. A mere touch of a grin tells that Iwaizumi knows it too. Knotting his hair into his fistfuls he licks the roof of his mouth sucking on the edge of his lips. He’s touch starved, desperate, desperate for any caress to come his way. Knee buckling, Iwaizumi controls him, pivoting his hips to hold him up. No matter what anyone says, Iwaizumi is a great kisser. It didn’t matter how lips have met his, all that was important was the fact it was him at the moment.

Lifting him up the sink, he dips entrapping one arm worked is neck while clutching at the cupboards. He moans sweet and low, as the rain claps and booms. Iwaizumi’s eyelashes flutter as his cheeks heat up. It’s controlling, urgent, demanding similar to rest of the  kisses they’ve shared. As if Iwaizumi had no time in the world.

“Iwa..i” He moans into his mouth as his hands wander farther up his thighs.

Every feeble movement sends him withering under his him, and he holds onto the counter. Oikawa’s gasps are irrational and unpredictable as he bites his lips. The night grows darker and darker, and the room dims slowly. The spark in his eyes are real, and he cries out when his lips are fever hot and he runs his chin to hold him even closer.

When he parts, he’s clasping his hands, they’re cold unlike the rest of his body. Tooru grins, Iwaizumi’s shirt unbuttoned and falling. His ass hurts for sitting stiffly on the edge of the sink for so long. But he looks up and laughs, and then Iwaizumi joins in. It’s not a haughty laugh or one that sounds. Rather genuine, rich and velvety like the way he speaks.

And they don’t stop even after the rain stops, not even when the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to hmu at [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/ibreatheakaashi) for any questions! And feel free to follow for more updates!


	5. I never doubted myself But I doubted you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it seems every time they take a step forward, they're forced to take a step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i teensy bit late i apologize, but I'm trying my best!! yes, it's very sad this is indeed the second to last chapter and im starting to lowkey get the feelz from my own fic! this chapter is a balance of humor, fluff, and yes it has come.. drumroll please.... angst. this adventure has me spinning in circles for these dumb bois and im in the hell hole and cant get out!
> 
> but onward and i hope you enjoy this chapter ;)

 

It would be uncanny that the slim possibility of having somebody else in his bed. Even when Akaashi makes an appearance to stay over, he happily is content to sleep on the lumpy couch. Quite uncomfortable unlike the queen mattress that’s being occupied by a weighing body beside him. Tooru never paid attention to the soft trickling snores that Iwaizumi made when he slept. Watching him sleep, sounding as stalkerish as it was, was soothing. To witness all the narrowed and creases disappear when his eyes closed. During the day, his attitude consists of harsh words and stern glances. Sometimes they’re gentle along with the lines that show increased maturity. But during the night, the mask falls. He’s restless and buried in paperwork but here, with Oikawa he’s careless; free.

His lips purse, rather aggravated as most scenarios instead, peaceful. It’s later, Iwaizumi must not have to come to work early. The arm clock has already rung for the eight o’clock bell. They both slept straight through the first and second reminder. No evident noises coming from outside his room, Tsukishima must not be home yet. Tooru rises before Iwaizumi, clothes from last night still intact. After eating, they made out, stayed watching corny movies that soon were forgotten. It was nice, his sexual frustration still present but lessened.

Iwaizumi’s suit is wrinkled, dry but crushed up from the rain. His tie is crooked and loosened around his neck. Oikawa neatly brushes his finger along his cheek feeling the week-old stubble along his jaw. It tickles the side of the index finger as he draws back. The comforter spills on top of him, covering his bottom half, stopping at his waist. Twitching once before turning the other side, Oikawa holds a chuckle to refrain from waking him up.

Grabbing coffee and donuts would be the efforting way to grab breakfast but he sadly on had only enough money for a scone. Stealing a couple of bucks from Iwaizumi’s wallet is another good idea, but he felt it was impolite to ask. Deciding the most complicated decision was to cook for the both of them. Leftover groceries he bought when Kuroo cooked curry is in tupplewire so he grabs it from the fridge. Slices of toast were left in the plastic wrapping at the mid of the island. He could put that in the toaster, not too hard. Flour, eggs, milk, vanilla extract- pancakes would do. He hasn’t prepared this type of family-friendly meal in years since he spent weekends with Takeru and his sister. She’s always been the extravagant cook in the family next to his mother. Though recently, her health has taken a toll on her daily cooking.

It’s been a handful of years since he’s seen his mother and his father. Living in the lower part of Queen the commute was an hour or so, yet the last time he’s visited was for New Years graduating from high school. The occasional envelope would arrive at his door for specific occasions-birthdays, Christmas. A slip of bills rolled with a rubber band. They’ve never been particularly close, not recently. In all his life, a divide between their family has been present leaving Tooru to stray as away from his family as humanly possible. They're not close, to put into simple terms.

The mixing bowls are stored underneath the shelves beside the closet. The eggs remaining are enough for a few stacks of pancakes, he mixes the contents as per memory serves. Stirring he turns up the burner, as the heat extinguishes from the burner. As a child, mixing the batter was his favorite job, watching the flour dissolve with the rest of the wet ingredients. Them finally as the batter would turn buttery and crispy on the pan.

It’s been years since he’s made this type of opulent dish, furthermore cook for anyone. He’s impatient as soon as the batter hits the sizzling pan, he waits for the magic to happen. Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen as soon as he had hoped and when he flips it, the pancake breaks. He mutters a low ‘damn’ under his breath. He doesn’t remember it being as complicated when his sister used to make them.

He concentrates on flipping the pancake without breaking it, forgetting to watch it as a repugnant brining smell fills the air. He whips around to find the batter burning, and it’s smell waters his eyes.

“Shit-” he scrambles to whack the overpowering smell, as the smoke rises. This wasn’t good, not the best way to start the morning, not what Tooru had in mind at all.

The crash from the kitchen likely wakes up the whole block. As he winces, tiptoeing to confirm that Iwaizumi was still asleep. But as he raises the spatula, a heavy figure stands in the doorway, arms crossed. Tooru gulps caught red-handed. Maybe it was the smell that woke him up or the fact that he was making enough noise to wake up the dead.

“What the fuck are you doing? And so early in the morning?” Iwaizumi squints, shrugging off the doorway, latching himself from the entrance.

“It’s eight, Iwa-chan’s sense of time is poor.” he chirps, luckily as the coffee pot makes a low hum and a quick click, he pours a cup and slides it to him.

He reluctantly takes the mug, and with a groan, he chugs half the coffee in one go as if he’ll drink the beverage again. “Good morning to you.” He rolls his eyes, and Iwaizumi wipes his pity of the back of his sleeve.

“How can you be great at making coffee but shit at cooking the world’s easiest breakfast?.” He deadpans, surveying the mess that Tooru has impossibly attempted to hide.

“Rude!” He says snidely.

Iwaizumi takes the spatula from his hand before he causes any more damage. He shouts in protest but allows him to take over, Oikawa was perfectly capable of just watching.

“There’s enough batter to remake them.”

Stepping out of the way, he plops himself down on the bar stools, legs crossed. Awaiting, Iwaizumi pours the batter into the pan, seizing the fruit that he hasn’t remembered buying at all. His hands are big, as they grasp the knife neatly. A small scar on the knuckle of his pinkie. Slow and steady, they slice the strawberries. Mesmerized, Tooru doesn’t hear him call his name.

“Oikawa, where’s the sugar?” He asks, and he snaps awake, facing up.

“Oh, it’s in the first cabinet to your left.” Iwaizumi comfortably moves around in his kitchen.

He’s in his kitchen. Iwaizumi is walking around freely in his kitchen, cooking him pancakes.

Dusting off the access thoughts his mind returns to the stove where Iwaizumi stands. Memories flood back to the first time he met Iwaizumi. He cooked him breakfast, only so many days ago. He must’ve noticed him staring because he looks up suddenly, and Oikawa is forced to look away to save himself from embarrassment. Only does Iwaizumi continue to focus on the task in front of him.

Minutes later, he turns around setting a plate down in front of his own eyes. Eyes widened, his mouth hangs open. Three fluffy pancakes slope on top of the other in a stack. All powdered with sugar and cinnamon, strawberries dewy and baked in the morning sun. The syrup dripping from the pile, sliding down the plate. Whipped cream balanced in symmetrical dollops at the top. Pressing a fork into his hand, he moves to take a bite.

Bursts of sweet maple sweep his tongue, and he hums in sheer delight. “Iwa-chan would make a good housewife.”

A quick flick to his forehead rocks him back, as he grabs the counter edge, “don’t be an idiot, I’m no housewife.” Iwaizumi growls, all bark and no bite.

“With your growly little frown and wrinkles, it’s quite cute.” he snickers. Instinctively, he reaches to his forehead as his forehead creases in small lines of annoyance.

“Fuck off,” he hisses and sets the glass of orange juice in front of him as he gratefully accepts it.

“You really don’t mean that.” liltingly he replies as Iwaizumi crosses over from the counter making his way away from the kitchen.

He mumbles along the lines of ‘ _I really don’t_ ’ and straightens up. “Mind if I use your shower? It’d be a pain to go back to my room and take one there.”

Mouth occupied with dripping pancakes he struggles to find his words without spewing his breakfast out. “Go ahead, you smell.” and he wrinkled his nose swallowing simultaneously.

He glares, shutting the bathroom door behind him. The noise of water pouring from the shower head slowly grows into a rhythm. The door isn’t fully shut, giving access to a view that Tooru couldn’t just look away from. Sure, he’s seen him shirtless, naked, but at the moment where the lower Manhattan sun rises, it’s peak hits perfectly. His tan skin has always been a rugged darker color to the eyes, but now it was light more of a caramel shade. The light prances along his skin, like small sparks bursting along the edges of this silhouettes. His horrible light fixture seems to only accentuate this figure, as Iwaizumi stands with his back turned. Pancakes quickly forgotten, he admires the hard-muscled back, curving into his hips which disappear into the hem of his trousers.

Soon, the opaque metal door slides open as he steps inside. The door shuts, and Oikawa jumps back, fastly turning back to his own plate. He was an idiot for gazing where his eyes would follow, hungrily looking back. Soon, the shower stops and he’s halfway through the third layer of pancakes as he emerges from the steaming bathroom.

Towel wrapped around his waist, his mouth went dry. “Extra clothes are in the closet, help yourself.” he stammers, and Iwaizumi nods.

“All your clothes are big,” he calls out from the closet, slightly muffling his voice.

Oikawa rolls his eyes, their build was different, while Iwaizumi was bigger and broader his height was shorter than him. “Or Iwa-chan is just short!” he yells back.

“Can you act normal for once?” Iwaizumi’s irritated voice becomes clearer as he nears and Oikawa spins around.

“No need to be so rude Iwa-chan.” but he stops, possibly because that Iwaizumi would look so _normal_ in his clothes. A simple blazer that he must’ve dug out from his sister’s wedding. The pants are a tad short, cutting bluntly at the ankle. The dress shirt is collarless, and his collarbone is still wet soaking through the shoulders.

Taken note of the pause he says, “what, is there something wrong?” and he shakes his head, swaying the fork in his direction.

He continues to eat, having to wipe the syrup off his face multiple times. Finally, Iwaizumi pulls his chin up, elbows knocking against his on the marble top. With the pad of his thumb, he wipes the corner of his mouth expertly that was cornered with cream. If Tooru was genuinely surprised by the action, then he wouldn’t be blushing so much. He bets on how many times he’s performed this move before catches the latter off guard.

“Idiot.” his voice astoundingly soft, before he closes in the space between them.

It’s been only a few times where this would happen. The tension would build, then the other would succumb and break the gradual towering walls. Unlike the rest, this kiss is rather lazy. His mouth despite tasting like honey, and sticky, flicks his bottom lip. There’s no desperate clutching, no gasping where the other is panting to catch their breath. Bold sweeps around his mouth, he smells like shaving cream. It’s a good smell, mixed with the usual musty scent he carries, definitely not Burberry. Gently, he traces the roof of his mouth, exploring. As if he has all the time in the world, in his apartment kissing Iwaizumi.

Oh, how much he wants so much more, but cannot have is killing him. He pushes the plate aside, tightly holding onto his cheek. Smooth and shaven, his hand trails from his neck and Tooru slips his fingers around his neck.

Iwaizumi breaks away, shrugging on the large jacket he’d worn the night before.

“Where are you going?” he asks, lips warm and teased.

“Work, it’s almost 9, you have class right?” Iwaizumi says and Oikawa checks the clock on the wall of his living room as it read 8:53.

“Crap, I forgot!” he curses, snatching his backpack he’d thankfully found scattered around his floor. “Want me to drive you, my roommate left the car today?” but he only shakes his head, grinning unremarkably widely.

“I think I’ll walk, it’s my driver’s day off.” and he freezes at the familiar sentence.

_I think I’ll walk._

“Suit yourself,” he says, as the door shuts. He reaches to lock it, crumbling to the floor, the remaining pancakes getting cold from the open window that was left open. The breeze was nice, for such a humid day.

And once again Iwaizumi was gone.

 

  
Classes are minimal, his shift isn’t until late, meaning he has the rest of day to himself after his final class. He supposed it would be best to hit the books for his final exams coming up soon. He checks the time, as the afternoon light erratically reaches the top of the building. New York during this time was quiet, but Oikawa waits to hear the signature honk in the distance.

He makes his way down to the train station, stepping down the paved stairs leading to the underground. Oikawa’s walked this path more times than he could count. It’s crowded, as he boards the next train into Brooklyn. He finds a seat near the exit, soon the seats fill up leaving some to cling onto the overhead handles as the train rocks. Minutes later, he gives up his seat for an old lady who wobbles with her cane, as he brightly smiles at her. With her wrinkled eyes, she pats him on the arm happily.

As he stands, the train rattled on the tracks, it’s been a while since he’s chosen this route of transportation, nevertheless bought a ticket to Brooklyn. Surrounded by fancy bars and shopping malls, he hasn’t been in his home town in years. Not since Takeru’s 13th birthday and that was long ago. Brooklyn comes in view when the train hurtles to a stop nearly throwing him off balance.

The rustic building still stands, all coated in an extra layer of cement to hold its foundation from cracking. He passes by countless of playgrounds his mother used to take when he was younger. The volleyball net his elementary school classmates used to aimlessly pass the ball back and forth to. Flooding memories back to shove his hands into his pocket as he counted to walk past it.

Tooru arrives at his destination, pausing at the gate of the playground. Children skitter across the mulch, scream and laughter fill the sunny day. Unable to refrain from smiling, he opens it. Joyful squeals come from the swings, spreading to the yellow slide his sister rode with him all the time.

  
His legs feel heavy as they make their way to the bench in the far corner giving an exceptional vision of the whole park. Once he sits, the figure stirs. The wind pushes through his hair, and he likes the weather particularly today.

“Thanks for meeting with me.” He says Fumiko sits there beside him, bundled up in her red scarf.

She doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t expect her to, it’s been years since he last saw her. She waits for him to settle and the frigid seeps into his cheeks as he shivers. He spots Takeru, a stick in hand-hooked to a boy his age as they carry a volleyball on the other hand making is heart thump. He’s been gone for so long, only now are prices of Brooklyn coming back to him.

“You have another child,” He notices, as Fumiko sways the scroller close to her.

“Ayame, her name is Ayame.” She echos, as the stroller spins to face Oikawa. She’s young, a few months old. With giant cheeks that are pink and rosy, he couldn’t help but wave his fingers at her as coos.

“She looks like you.” He smiles at her and she returns it giving a fragile hit carefully placed one.

The clouds grow larger and whiter as they swarm around the area, “now why are you here Tooru? You're not the one to visit so randomly.”

He brushes off the direct pressure, “am I not allowed to visit my older sister and my favorite ‘nephew and niece?” He adds, wiggles his fingers at Ayame as she screeches in excitement.

“Tooru..” she begins, and he sighs slumping further into the bench, digging into his back.

“I met someone.” He says curtly and Fumiko looks up taken back by his bluntness. “It was a good time, the first time but now-“ he stops, stopping his voice from hitching.

“And now, we’re beyond sneaking around, but I think-“ he stops again and winces. God, why wasn’t Oikawa able to finish his sentence?

She seems to understand, her eyes softly closing. Thoughtfully she opens her mouth but instead closes it. “Think what Tooru?” She asks peacefully.

“I think-. I think I’m in love with him.” He finishes. He’s strangely calm after concluding. Half expecting himself to break down in front of his sister.

Fumiko knew about him, about his preference but yet that doesn’t hide the natural curiosity yearned on her face. “Who is he?”

“Someone who in the million years I’d never thought I’d find myself falling for. He’s a work addict, dedicated to his family. He’s loyal, stuck up sometimes but I’ve only judged him so many times I guess I deserve it.” He laughs, the tears don’t come. “But I can't be with him, that’s not how it’s meant to be.”

“Oh, Tooru.” She whispers, and he straightens.

“I’m in love with him.” He repeats to himself. Over and over again until the words turn liquid in his mouth.

“I’m glad you found happiness.” She says, the same pretty distinct trait they share; their smile.

A vibrate buzzes urgently in his pocket as he rustles to pull it from his pocket apologetically taking the call he moves away. The caller ID reads _Iwa-chan_ which he finds unusually, he always sticks to texting.

“Hello?-" He begins, but the hurried tone in the other line silences him.

“My father was- in an accident, help.” The static is scratchy but he makes out the words.

“I’m on my way.”

*

 

He wonders if the media’s already been alerted. They have to be, for the accident occurring on the intersection on 12th street. He knows his mother and Kaito arrived at the hospital. He’s not in the office, but the accident. In Iwaizumi’s brain, he’s stuck in the time loop, where his mother calls him, in the same kind tone she uses for his father.

_Your father, he’s been in an accident, they’re performing emergency surgery._

_It’s bad, the accident. You should come to the hospital right away._

The day has passed, the stars seem to fall around him. Was he shaking, was the world spinning around him? It was all the same, as he stood in front of the building. He hasn’t had time to change since the morning. His phone hangs helplessly against his side, dangling from the web of his fingers. It’d been only days since he’s spoken to his father, it wasn’t a friendly conversation but than again when was it ever? His paternal skills weren’t the same as they once were.

A sedan pulls up around the circle who knows when he hasn’t been paying attention. He knows it’s Oikawa, and his feet lead him to the passenger side as the bolts from the car door unlock. And when he slides in, he sinks in slightly, the gray plush interior causing him to fall into the seat. Oikawa glances at him but says nothing. No peevish greeting, nothing to cause him to blow a fuse.

Hajime holds his tongue, as Oikawa holds onto the steering wheel a bit too tight.

“The hospital, do you have the directions?” he hears from the side of his ear. He turns, to see his mouth moving but only so many words could he actually hear.

The buzzing stops, “no, but it’s the pedestrian hospital on the corner of Manhattan.”

Oikawa tsks, “ _helpful much?_ ”

Despite the moment, it was nice weather. The birds waddled along the street, mothers and their strollers chatted around the bay. It was all but a typical evening, except his father was in the hospital and may have been all his fault. He doesn’t ask Oikawa how he got the vehicle so fast, but then again he did mention a shared car he has with his roommate who he’s never met before. Maybe that's how it’s meant to be.

He can’t tell what’s worse, the fact his hands won’t stop shaking or that he has a mass pile of paperwork abandoned back in his office. He hasn’t called anyone else, he could handle this without his friends waving their noses in his business. Yet, there sat Oikawa with a grip on the wheel as they halt at a stop light. It was a mistake asking for a ride, but the car had been destroyed in the car accident, luckily the driver got away with minor injuries.

But this father on the other hand.

“He’s going to be okay,” Oikawa says calmly.

 _He better_ , Iwaizumi’s not sure what would happen if he wasn’t. The traffic light turns green and their off again. Soon the silver building is visible and he begins to unbuckle his seatbelt before the car stops. They park, and he jumps out, heart beating too fast. Shallow breaths that become unsteady. A warm hand presses against his back and he slows down. Upon entering he shoots for receptionist, hands clamping against the desk.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where Iwaizumi Daisuke is?” and she shortly nods, hands flying across the keyboard.

“He’s in emergency surgery, the ICU should be preparing for him,” she says.

“Do you know when he’ll be out?” Iwaizumi pleads.

“I’m sorry sweetie, it doesn’t say. The doctors upstairs in the ICU can tell you more.” and returns to help another patient.

He mumbles a thank you and Oikawa pull him along the hallway.

The hospital has been a sore spot for him since he was young, his family has a private physician allowing them to be provided the same services rather having to constantly visit them. White walls plastered, smelling like sanitizer and Lysol, the smell hangs in his nose. His head, it aches, and he grips Oikawa’s hand. The beeping suspends in the air, filling the surface. And he couldn’t get it to disappear

Shit, it was getting worse and he needed a cigarette.

Hajime recognizes the slim build of his mother sitting in the shell seats by the water fountain. Kaito stands pacing around no doubtfully waiting to hear the news.

His mother stops, once realizing he’s here and rushes to meet him. Oikawa hangs by, shifting side to side.

“Hajime, they’ve almost finished, I hope I didn’t disrupt you from work,” she says, smiling sadly with her moss green eyes. Just like him.

He forces himself to put on the mask, hugging her tightly, “it’s alright, he’s going to be fine.” the lumps in his throat swells.

Clearing his throat, “I’ll grab us something to drink.” Oikawa intrudes, rushing off down the stairs.

Kaede raises her eyebrow, saturated with amusement, thin line of worry creases into intrigued. “Who’s he?”

_Oikawa Tooru, the boy I’ve been wanting to introduce you to for a long time._

“A friend, he drove me to the hospital when I got your call.” Iwaizumi replies.

“I’m sure, bringing every person you screw with along with you,” Kaito mutters, and he whips to his side.

He looks like their father, in the burgundy waistcoat, probably his. Hair coiffed distinguishable as him too, though his hair longer around his forehead. Beads of fury storming in his eyes.

But he stops her, facing directly to Kaito, “what the hell do you know about who I sleep with?” he whispers not so loudly.

He shrugs, “I don’t but I’m pretty sure screwing people left and right with people like him has made you softer.” he laughs, voice creepily over his words. Pure disgust.

His mind ran over his words, people like him he thought. Oikawa wasn’t another his one nights stands. He felt different when he’s near him. In the beginning, the fooling around, the impatient stolen kisses but now as he watches him hand the coffee stand cashier a five dollar bill. Warmth spreads through him and he clenches his hand.

“Fuck off Kaito, your the playboy between us and everyone knows it.” Iwaizumi growls.

Kaito narrows his eyes, moving closer as he parts away from his mother.

“Boys, play nice we’re in a hospital.” She warns but they ignore her.

“Megan is different.” Kaito hisses.

Iwaizumi snorts, “just like the rest of the girls that came before her.”

“Don’t be jealous, we all know your actually happy we’re in this situation.”

Was he? He pauses, his old man was in the hospital, and Kaito was assuming he was actually relieved about this? He’s been the one to clean him up, meet with clients, polish paperwork, oversee the industry. Iwaizumi takes a breath, conscious of the neighboring passersby who’ve noticed the brewing fight. He could dismiss this, but he can’t stop.

“I’m the one who’s been making sure that what our father has built doesn’t fall apart!” he yells, grabbing hold of his jacket.

“Or after the money, it’s not too hard being the youngest.” he coos, as Kaito eyes dig into his.

“Mrs. Iwaizumi, it’s good to see you again unfortunately in these conditions.”

“Any news on my husband?” her voice light, almost too hopeful.

He grimaces, “the surgery was a success, only minor complication but it went smoothly, his vitals are stable only recovering from major lacerations and a broken leg.” he sighs in relief, but here’s something still troubling him.

“Mam, the next few questions may be of discomfort, but we also noticed something troubling when the toxicology reports came back.”

His mother’s expression grows into confusion, as she prompts him to continue. “We discovered traces of ethanol in his system, does your husband drink?”

He freezes, his heart drops, it was coming back to haunt him. The bottles of alcohol stored in his shelf, the whiskey containers buried along with the memories. He was drinking when the accident happened? His father had reported that he’s been sober for months, that was all a lie. Has the pressure gotten to him, was it Iwaizumi? He pales, and Kaito sees the slip in composure.

“Daisuke isn’t an alcoholic.” his mother insists, and Dr. Nakamura speaks to her in kind words.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the old man got sick of you, with all your bullshit.” Kaito snarls.

Hajime snaps, his fist contacting his jaw flying to meet his mouth. The collision is loud as Kaito staggers back, registering shock on his face. His hand stings and a loud cry calls for him in all directions.

“fuck you Kaito.” he spits out, as he cradles his jaw, and then before he could react, there goes a sickening punch that cracks onto his face. He stumbles, fumbling to hold his ground as he slips to the carpet bringing a table with him.

It burns and Iwaizumi stares above him, Kaito hovering above him. He scrambles to stand up, as an arm holds him down, pulling him away. Oikawa is there, witnessed the whole thing, and looking extremely pissed. His eyes feel glazed, swelling up. Blood fills his mouth, and he spits it out. A tooth falls to the floor, and he wipes his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing?” Oikawa asks, tone dangerously low, no jokes, no tricks.

He avoids his glare, “he’s the one that started it.”

“What are you, five? You’re making a fool of yourself.” when Oikawa suddenly softens, caressing his bruising cheek, he flinches away.

“Don’t touch me, you should leave.” he snaps back.

He hardens, darkening before replying, “not if you’re going to start another fight I won’t, I care Iwaizumi.”

_Iwaizumi._

“Leave me alone, you’ve already made things worse being here.” his voice desperately quiet but he knows he heard him.

His hand leaves his side, and it’s cold. “I see if that’s how you feel, I’ll get out your way.” he nods to his mother who’s hand is covered over mouth in horror. “It was nice to meet you Mrs. Iwaizumi.” and he’s gone, storming down the hallway, coffee pooling around him in a circle.

He should chase after him, tell him how he feels in front of everyone. Let him know that he doesn’t want him to go, that he needs him to hold him tight through the darkest days that are about to happen. Iwaizumi wants to tell him so many things, at this moment but never gets the chance to.

Oikawa is long gone beyond his reach.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to bother me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ibreatheakaashi) there i ramble about upcoming fics and hq and daiya no ace nonsense!


	6. Heard about all the love you lost, It was over before it began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they both learned a bit along the road, both the beginning and end of each other, a new journey awaits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, thank you all for being here in this journey of this fic. it's been almost four months when I had this idea of a simple hook-up fic where the high tales of predijuce was one take of the overall theme. then came my stupid emotions with iwaoi and it transformed into a fic where expectations and family were at large. I've been with these characters for so long it feels that it's hard to let go now. i hope you've enjoyed this fic as much I enjoyed writing it. thank you to the continuous kudos and love given to this fic. readers like you all are the reason why I didn't give up writing.
> 
> this chapter is slightly explicit but I haven't written smut in like an eternity so i made for ambiguous with the whole love stuff... i won't be dead after this fic, I'll actually be switching gears with a new fandom ive aqquired fortunately. coming out soon will a daiya no ace fic ive been planning for quite some time! i hope you'll continue to read my fics and supprot me, it really means so much. no without shedding any tears onward we go to the final chapter of Rear View! enjoy;)

 

Iwaizumi’s first cigarette was drastic. Similar to every other high school teenager, being entangled in the habits of classic idiotic things was common. The first scent that hits is the nicotine, with its musky odor. At first, it tasted disgusting, but then as time passes by, the more and more occasions that fly by to light a cigar up grow.

Likewise, the experiment with his first beer is the same. Upon graduating high school, he, Hanamaki, Matsukawa were able to buy a few saturated beer cans from his stash. The whole ordeal felt a bit scandalous, breathtaking to perform a simple task to him. The beer was watered down, sweating in his hands. The first sip is like riding a bike, sour and horrible. Until he grew accustomed to ordering a whiskey at the local bar, smoking and drinking weren’t easy.

But today, it’s natural.

Normally, Iwaizumi only drinks under pressure, being every day, he attempts to limit the cigarette packs he inhales. One pack is average but two to three are reserved for the really bad days. Today is an exception, or maybe at the moment, for a while, he doesn’t give a shit. With the kept nicotine scent in the room, he hasn’t bothered to open the window, and he doesn’t plan to. he plans on suffocating in the musty smell of cigarette that he smokes. Or the bland taste of whiskey that begins to water down on his desk.

He rolls his neck, taking a glance at the glass. Sweat spills from the bottomless caramel liquid. Just like those eyes that spoke of pride and dignity. Intelligence, seductiveness. Qualities that he never thought he’d meet in his life, and now it’s slipped from his hands.

His hands' curls into his chest, he knew it hurt. The pain was unbearable, as the pain sought beneath his heart thumps. “Fuck.” His voice is scratchy, and god everything hurts.

The aftermath of a hangover doesn’t last long, his high tolerance to alcohol is credible. Unfortunately, right now he’s too drunk to tell if he’s sober or not. Preferably, he’s liked to stay that way. The intoxicating buzz brings a painful headache but in return, he has no concept of time. Iwaizumi can only assume it’s been days, almost a week since the incident at the hospital. His mother hasn’t called, so he has no clue about the status of his father. Should he care? God no, but after hearing Kaito’s words he truly is insufferable. Hajime isn’t able to be selfish, to want something so badly and have the ability to get it.

Now, that chance is gone, and he waits for nothing. No remorse, no inch of regrets threads through his head. Only the pit of misery swallowing him up. It’s like his first time, his hands are shaking as he lights up what he believes to be the tenth cigarette today. He lets the smoke wallow up in his nose, as he sighs. He glances at his phone, pitch black on a table he doesn’t remember placing. It’s dead and he can’t find the charger, but he has no plans on opening it up knowing well that it’s blown up with messages. Maybe his mother, frantic and worried. Or his best friends wondering what the hell happened. By now, everyone probably knows.

He can hear the voices lingering in the hallway, but no one dares to knock. The papers have been delivered to his desk where they stay untouched. His clothes stink of booze, his collar is unfixed, where his shirt is untucked. If only his mother saw him like this if only the media saw him like this. Ruined, unhinged. On the brink of being his father, that is-

If he isn’t like him already.

The glass swings in his hand, he hasn’t bothered to get a look of him in the mirror, but he knows he’s a mess. Hajime heard voices swirling around him.

_Iwa-chan, why are so grumpy?_

_Kiss me Hajime._

_I’m in love with you-_

He stops, because that wasn’t Oikawa’s voice, it was his. He chokes up, it wasn’t true. All those lilting, hard-spoken words that twisted Hajime into oblivion. The cold running liquid trails down the table lapping at his cheek as he rests his head against it.

“Iwaizumi Hajime, you better open this door right now, or we’re going to call the fire department to break it down!” The voice is recognizable, and he realizes it’s Hanamaki pounding at his door.

The sky is a bright blue, as it reflects in the mirror informs of him. He squints, slumping down to ignore the continuous banging. But it doesn’t stop, and in fact, worsens. The hungover infused with the pounding headache coming from his friends, it’s too much.

“Leave me alone!” He muffles from beneath his elbow, barring his words.

He can hear several attempts clicks to open the door, as it jams. He yawns, rubbing his eyes, “or even better, we’ll kick down the door ourselves!” A new one, deeper. Matsukawa probably joined him, and he curses them all.

The last thing he needed was to pay for a broken door, so he decided against his better judgment to let them in. He stumbles to find his steps up to the door where he unlocks it. Hajime falls back, two men shouldering through the doors, one with cotton candy tinted hair and the other thicker arched eyebrows the same shade of his dark curled hair. They’re both dressed up, formal as if he was a stop on their way to work. Which is right here technically though that wasn’t the point.

“Happy now?” He says, pattering his way back to the chair, tipping the now full glass into his mouth. Wincing at the sudden wash of sourness, he shivers.

Still not used to the vodka it seemed.

“Look, he’s still alive,” Hanamaki tells Matsukawa, completely ignoring Iwaizumi’s presence.

Matsukawa hides his fury with casual humor as he plays along with Hanamaki’s statement, gazing lazily at Iwaizumi’s disastrous figure.

“What joy, at least he’s not dead at some bar joint in Brooklyn.”

He wants to scowl, make some tempered reply, but he can't and rather swings the bottle once more. Wiping the back of his hand, he rests his eyes on the pair. “You look like shit,” Matsukawa adds, and Iwaizumi snorts at the sudden bluntness.

“A bit courageous today aren’t we?” he mutters, ready to take another long sip, but the bottle resting between his palm is taken away from him.

“You’ve had enough, before we know it we’ll find you butt naked proclaiming your undying love on Manhattan Street.”

If he wasn’t so drunk, he might’ve laughed, growled at the provoking and foolish words. He withheld his tongue, o once realizing his pack of cigarettes is empty he heavily reaching into the drawer to grab a fresh one. The look of disapproval is evident on their faces, but he flickers the light close to his mouth while they still stand there. The first inhale is rich, and he breathes it calmly allowing himself to relax. A bit too late for that part he guessed.

“It’s just a whiskey or two.” he flippantly waves him off, refusing to believe his ridiculousness.

“More like five or six, do you even know what time it is?” Hanamaki adds arms crossed, more bewitched than aggravated towards Iwaizumi’s terribly drunk attitude.

The roman clock hangs far from him, near the entrance of the office. It ticks, ticks, never stopping. Too many number swirl and the nagging headache returns. His phone was dead, not exactly brilliant, meaning no closet digital clock was of use. Apparently, they knew that perfectly, because when he responds they clutch their sides and start to laugh comically.

“Sometime in the day, I don’t care!” he bristles, the alcohol wearing off of him, settling out to his friends.

Matsukawa steps forwards, rising from his crouched position, held up from the distant sofa. “That’s funny, not only do you have no idea what time it is, but your drunk and absolutely destroyed.”

The dark glint in his typical laid-back aloof eyes harden, and he grabs the crook of his shirt pulling him dangerously close to him. It was usually Hanamaki to perform these angry stunts, starting a fight, putting Iwaizumi in his place(only when necessary). But now it’s Matsukawa who glares at him, eyes half buried by his tumbling curling black hair, though he’s glad he’s not able to see what’s under them. The cigarette resting at the edge of his mouth is knocked and Hajime glances at him before stomping it in the ashtray.

“Get your shit together, I didn’t come over here to witness you get drunk off your ass,” he says, and he only rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t have to come over, everyone sticks their ass into my business and it pisses me off.” Iwaizumi snarls, but sits back down, the headache taking over.

“Is because of Oikawa?” and he freezes.

Was this because of him? Oikawa Tooru who now wants nothing to do with him. God, he really did screw him up. The one chance he had for something good in his life has now perished. He sees him now, crumbling in front of his friends, he’d giggle and call him pathetic. Bright beautiful brown eyes with the gentle eyelashes that flutter when he’s nervous or in thought. Small detail overwhelms his brain and Matsukawa releases. He curls in defeat, hand ready to take another cigar out but hands cease to fully reach out.

_Iwa-chan, you’re practically smoking cancer, having liver failure wouldn’t look so good with those wrinkles!_

He clasps the cigar but makes no moves to light it up. Slowly he uncurls his hands and it falls onto the floor. Fuck this feeling really sucked, like really badly. He was helpless, and they both knew that.

“Oikawa doesn’t matter, okay?” his plead comes out weak, and Matsukawa tsks. Tsks, he’s never done that even when’s been irritated the most. Though Iwaizumi may be an exception.

“Stop dancing around your feelings and just talk to the guy.”

He sighs, not of the how more complicated it sounded, but of how exhausted he was. “it’s much hard than that.”

“Wim-” he intrudes on Hanamaki’s final words, pushing his desk chair to stand but finds himself wobbling slightly.

“I need to go, you can see yourselves out,” he says, grabbing his coat from the rack.

They share an identical look before turning, “your drunk there’s no way in hell you’re leaving.”

“I’ll sober up in the car.” he pushes them away.

“Hold on, Iwaizumi you're going to see him now?”

“Let go.” he hisses, as they flinch back in surprise, backing up. He finishes putting on his coat, limping out the day to shut if behind him.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, crouching with his Tom Ford sunglasses, the sun annoying bright today, the best day to have a hangover. Trudging into the city, his headache won’t stop, but his heart does. It whispers his name and Iwaizumi wants nothing more but a glass of water.

*

“He hasn’t cried, that’s a good sign right?” someone whispers from outside his bedroom, the careful thumps of footsteps trailing around. Tooru desperately wants to throw a shoe at them.

Out of good nature, he stays conserved in his room. More like holed up surrounded the pity and raising thoughts of the weeks previous. After everything, after everything they’ve done, it was all tossed away. Ridded as if it was garbage and Tooru was the waste left to be dispensed. Crying can’t help in his case, though shedding a tear or two might make him feel better.

He was falling, definitely crashing into the past of regretful dwelling. No messages, despite the voice Tooru had sent in the beginning. Once receiving no initial response he gives up. Knowing Iwaizumi, the man probably left his phone to die. He’s been through with a few people, the atypical hookups, sneaky dates lasting a millisecond of forever.

The last time he’s cried was when his favorite milk bread shop went out business. And he was twelve at the time. Classes have been canceled due to weather conditions or some bullshit excuse. Now he isn’t sure what to call what exactly he’s feeling. An ounce of regret or misery left in his bones was dry.

Tooru wouldn’t admit it, but he wants nothing more than to scream and let out his frustrations out. He’s been keeping them sealed shut along with himself in his room for days, weeks. All he could of was muscular tan arms and piecing smiles that only the closest people could tell that the smile was next to the sun.

The trails of smokes that wisped in Iwaizumi’s car as they drove down the street together, the sentimental grin he wore only around Tooru. He would kiss those rough, battered hands hoping the illusions will stay. Needless to say, the rest is clear. The path he was following strayed far from what he originally intended.

Right now, it sucked.

“I can hear you, you know that right?” he yells, head buried into the covers.

“Oh lovely, he can talk.” a snarky voice adds and recognizes as Tsukishima salty tone.

“I can, and stop walking around my door, it’s annoying!” he snaps back.

Kuroo whistles, “that’s our signal Kei, let’s scram before he bites our heads off.”

He could the light tease is his voice but he knows he’s serious. Oikawa hears them bicker outside, and god they’re such a pain. Throwing the covers off his body, he slumps to the floor in angry shuffles. Swinging the door open, Kuroo whose closest to the door jumps back.

“Testu, always a pleasure to see you here.” he draws out languidly.

Hanging by the door, he peels himself off to glide through the two of them in order to reach the kitchen. The cereal in the cupboard is older but will suffice, since there's no master chef to cook pancakes or gourmet omelets. The bowl clatters as he throws it on the counter, the grains tumble into the ceramic plating that his mother bought for him at a random flea market. There’s not much milk yet, as he pours the rest of it tossing it aside.

Looking up, he says, “we’re out of milk.”

The bar stool feels unsteady, maybe it’s just him, after all, he is the mess in the apartment. His glasses are digging into his cheekbones, the last time his hair has met a hairbrush was days ago. As he shoves the cereal into his mouth, it lays there like mush, tasteless. “You’ve come out your room in what two weeks, and the only thing you have to say is that ‘we’re out of milk?’”

Oikawa stares up at Tsukishima, masking his irritation with indifference. “What? We need more groceries.”

“You smell, go take a shower at least.”

“Is Kei acting like my mother?” he said sweetly, stuffing the soggy cereal into his mouth again.

“Shower, now,” Tsukishima demands, and Oikawa dumps the spoonful back into the bowl.

“Whatever you say Tsukki!”

The bathroom is pristine clear, the same neatly placed order as it was left. Towels hung on the rack, air freshener releasing into the air. Peeling off his sweaty sweatpants, it falls idly. Along with this shirt, Tooru turns the knob of the bathtub. It was older, not like Iwaizumi’s fancy bathroom with jet streams. That would be amazing and curses bitterly as he steps inside and cold water shoots at his back. Instead of angrily attempting to fix the temperature of the water, he stands there unbothered and unfazed. Feeling soiled, he scrubs at his skin. Letting the water pour above his head, it feels like a blizzard but he doesn’t mind.

The first soap on the edge of the bathtub he takes, realizing the scent. It reeked of sandalwood, strawberries(courtesy of Tsukishima), and the similar musky smell Iwaizumi carries. From weeks ago, he remembered the scent that hung to his dress shirt, rather than the typical Burberry cologne he wore. This wasn’t good, thinking about him, while he’s in a shower.

Tooru’s the one who walked away when faced with small trouble, Iwaizumi’s breaking point, he couldn’t handle it and walked away from him when he needed him the most.

“Shit.”

His voice echos after he says that, but he knows Tsukishima probably hadn’t heard him. Good thing, because the next string of curses that spill from his mouth isn’t pretty. The emotions he’s been holding up come out easily. Oh, how screwed he was. Tooru damn sure about it, but he repeats it like a song.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The mumbles grow into a crude curse, as he punches the wall. It wasn’t like him to revolt in violence but it felt good to let it out. Except it’s painful his fingers are sore, and he winces. Not a good idea, adrenaline pumped through his body. The guilty pleasure of releasing his anger hums into his bones. Bones that ache under the bloody cold icy water. His skin will combust at any moment, yet to stays there. The last encounter with taking a shower while pondering of Iwaizumi has some effect on him. Now, with hands gripped against the wall, ready to launch a fist again he feels numb.

Maybe it’s hard to grip on the fact that he wanted nothing to do with him. Even after all they’ve been through, but who was Oikawa to judge it wasn’t like they were together or even exclusive. For all he knew, Iwaizumi could’ve been sleeping with someone else during their whole hookup ordeal.

He didn’t want him to move in, stolen kisses and fervent touches that causes miserable gasps of surprise. Teeth clashing of terrible measures of a rush. Breakfast together, sleeping arm in arm. Like what dating is, Tooru wanted that. And he couldn’t have it.

Love really did suck.

*

Since the car is still in the repair shop, he opts to walk. It’s the best consecutive decision, not to mention he hasn’t been out in weeks. The fresh taste of reality was nice for a change. Hajime drags through the shops of downtown Manhattan in his rugged outfit. He hasn’t shaved, the cologne used to mask the fact he’s drenched in whiskey can only go so far. It’s slightly stuffy in his coat, the sunglasses he wears to cover up his hangover aren’t Tom Ford's, and that means something. He wasn’t in the mood to be seen, and he bets the media is lurking around somewhere waiting for him to slip up.

Directions aren’t a problem as he effortlessly maneuvers himself to lead the way. If he wasn’t in a hurry, he’d love to leisurely lead himself to the nearest bar joint as Hanamaki or one of them predicted. Stupid assholes, always right.

Upon arriving, no one notices his suspicious features as he slips by the receptionist once asking the directions. “Can you tell me where I can find Iwaizumi Daisuke?”

Without looking up, she asks. “Are you family?”

“Family.” He trips on his words, hands palmy and sweaty when he replies.

“Room 14, fourth floor.”

Rather calmly his feet he follows, on the way to the elevator the gift shop is open. Flowers rounded on every corner, the store with gushing teddy bears that have ‘get better soon.’ imprinted on them in red lace. He didn’t want his father to believe this visit was actually planned. Hell no, Iwaizumi didn’t like to think the wearing off of the alcohol was feeding off the guilt and domesticated side of him. The ride takes a good thirty seconds before ringing into his ears with extreme noise. Boarding off, he searches for the clear to find any doctor hovering the door he needs to slip through. Knocking isn’t necessary and be opens the slightly fixated door.

In the middle near the wall laid his father. Looking paler than usual, the IV dripping from the machine, as the rhythmic sounds beat to the heart pacer. Hospitals were the worst, and he moves closer. Someone’s been keeping him well-kept he thinks noticing no sign of the rugged jaw that Hajime supports. Stitches line up around his cheek, crisscrossing together. Glasses placed delicately on the bedside table, chair pulled empty aside the bed.

Someone’s been here already.

He thinks of fleeing, but he needed to get this out his system. He’s fine so far to come here there’s no going back now. Passing he meets the right side, pushing the chair to scoot near his hand that lays limply from his chest.

Peaceful, the beginnings of wrinkles that Iwaizumi inherited are gone, if he didn’t know better than he’d see the man before the alcohol consumed and changed him into the man he is today. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, was it?

Judging from the lavender that slants crookedly against the clear vase, his other must’ve been here. Eyes shut, mouth set in a straight emotionless line. “Old geezer, causing all this trouble.” He mumbles, scoffing.

He really did, really gave Iwaizumi a heart attack and made him lose somebody important to him.

As he said, it’s too late now.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” A voice croaks up, and whips his head up.

An eye twitches as his father's hand fidgets, covering his mouth to cough.

“Don’t get any ideas, I just wanted to come and see you were.” He says, moving the blanket high up to cover him more.

He looks older, tired wrinkles lined up near his eyes, lost weight. And he can’t help but notice how similar they are right now. His heart aches and Iwaizumi disperses the feeling lingering in his body to push forward.

“Thank you, Hajime I appreciate-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He cuts off him brazenly. The question is cold and straight cut to the point.

His father sighs, “son…”

His hands start to tremble, “no, you can’t do this. Mother, you should’ve seen her, and Kaito. They were all scared.”

“It’s complicated, you won’t understand.”

And that’s when he laughs, exerting all the horrible feeling of insanity into his words. The thing is that he did understand. He was his father’s son, he knew of the late nights and instant craving of something tart. So it’s not hard to understand what he’s talking about.

“I’m not a child anymore, this is the real world, I know alcoholism when I see it.”

His father stares down guilty, “that has always been a problem, I’m sorry Hajime for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”

And Iwaizumi wants to tell him that it doesn’t begin to start for all the pain he’s impacted him with. How he was the responsible adult all these years, and his father played dress up in a nice suit and sat at a desk all day while Iwaizumi did all the work.

But he sighs, clenching his hands open. “You don’t get it do you?” he stands up, “I’ve been the one who’s been making sure the whole business you’ve built won’t fall apart. I’ve been the one who takes care of the paperwork and managing the clients. It was always me who helped you with your hangovers. I was only sixteen when you got drunk off your ass.” his breath hitches, as he paces back and forth.

“Hajime-”

“Let me explain,” he says, voice not wavering surprisingly. “I don’t blame you, but I do blame you for shaping me into you. Now, I can work on becoming a better person than you.”

“I understand, and that's why I was going to ask you to take over the Iwaizumi Industry.”

He trips over himself when walking back and forth, stopping suddenly. “Wait, you’re retiring?”

He shakes his head. “It’s about time I gave this position into the right hands. Knowing happily that it’s you, I can finally rest.”

“You know I can’t accept this, right?”

And that’s when he looks up and smiles. It’s a small one but hits Hajime in the worst place. He never smiles, he’s only seen him do it once around his mother when they were sharing the same lovey-dovey engrossing stare. He seems relieved, heartfelt gaze present on his face.

“I know, but I’m so proud of you.”

They share a mutual feeling, and he hopes to relish it forever. He was free.

“Father, I have to go,” he says, smiling widely. He could finally tell him, what he’s been wanting to tell him since the moment he flirted with him at the bar. Oikawa was waiting for him on the other side.

“Thank you for coming Hajime,” he said and they don’t hug nothing like that. But he knows in time they’ll go back to the way they once were. Time to heal the wound he supposed.

“Bring him over one day, I’d love to meet him.” his father echos before he walks out, one foot out the door.

He pauses, mouth curving naturally into a smile. “Yeah, I will.”

Hajime’s not sure where his feet take him, as he walks through the cold air of the evening. The sun setting low behind the horizon, milky warm colors spreading across the sky. He stands in front of the Ukai’s bar. But it’s dark if Oikawa was here, he was too late. Disappointingly he turns to hear the rustle of keys as the owner with a cigarette popped in his mouth finishes locking up.

“If you’re looking for Oikawa, his shift was over hours ago.”

“Did he go--” his voice drops, embarrassed.

“He said he was going to somewhere important, an errand. I don’t know that kid’s all over the place these days.” he snorts, inhaling through the cigar, making his head spin.

“Thank you sir,” he shouts out, running off. Could be at his apartment room, that’s the only place he could of. Sprinting on 23rd street he discovered wasn’t the best feeling as his legs move faster.

The doorman tips his hat as he opens the glass doors. Passing through he takes the stairs. It’s faster when he gets to his side of the hall. Breathless, he finds that the door is already unlocked. The window open, a big breeze sweeping inside. But all he can concentrate was that he was here, in his hotel room as he guessed.

Hanging by the small bar window that overlooked the city. He starts slowly behind him and shaken as he begins to speak.

“Sorry for barging in, the doorman opened it for me.” his tone soft, legs hugged together creating his body into the smaller figure than he really was.

“You’re really here.” he pants out, as Oikawa switches his focus off the evening sky to get a good gaze of Iwaizumi.

He was just as breathtaking as he remembered.

“Were you looking for me Iwa-chan? Still adorably flustering as usual.” he laughs lightly, and a bit haughtily but all he could think of how the spectacularly the light played with pale cheeks.

“Oikawa,” he starts. And when he glimpses up at him it causes for his heart to jump and he loses his quick stride of confidence.

“Iwa-chan?”

The words spill out easy, a quick whisper as the curtains fall and the moon is bright as ever. The stars twinkle, dazzling his neck.

“I love you. I’ve loved you since the day we met.”

He grins, free and speculate, “that’s good because I’m in love you too.” and tears fall in a frightful line.

The compromise is easy when they come together, step by step. Hajime takes his hand, letting it fall around his hip. . Fingers caress the slip of skin, feeling like pure fire. This one is similar to the one in the kitchen where fire meet gasoline and fireworks exploded in his chest. It’s completely dark as his mouth melts around Oikawa. The perfect moment, it seemed like fate. Iwaizumi wraps his arms pulling him. Never wanting to let go, he slots his hands into his hair. It felt just the same, soft, smelling of coconuts and mint.

Kissing Oikawa felt surreal when his tongue pokes the upper walls of his cheeks, he groans. That sound, the blissful melody rhythms like a flowing river through his bones.

“Iwa-” he mouths into the kiss, brushing the nape of his neck.

“Yes?” he’s a bit weak, bracing for a better grip before he might fall back into his knees.

“I want you, please.” a faint blush on his face, glowing up in the dark.

“Tooru, I love you so much.” Tooru, he loved the sound of his first name in his mouth as he sweeps up, lips never parting even when he walks backward expertly to grasp the bed falling onto the mattress.

Neither of them is in a rush. The process is painfully slow, but Iwaizumi wants it like this. To take a piece of the boy who stole his heart and turns it around. Uncovering Oikawa is like a game, a sweet game of discovery. Unsheathing each and every hidden prize on his body. He kisses his long beautiful neck as he gasps underneath him. The gasps turn into his mouth as his lips trail further and further. The night is young, as they take turns undressing each other. Iwaizumi smells the whiskey in his shirt, and Oikawa can smell it as he hugs his legs around his hips. Writhing, his kiss grows despairing.

“Hajime.” he moans, low and sweet like juice from a fruit.

When it happens, it’s dark, and the only thing that guides them together are moans that cherish their love. It sounds cheesy but for a time like this Hajime wouldn’t have it anymore way. Snapping his hips inside, their hands grip together against each other into the sheets. He holds back the groan, mustering it up into Oikawa’s shoulder. He can tell he’s being bashful, gaining more confidence, as his fingers scratch his back after picking up the pace. With barely any foreplay, comes with little preparation but every moment is taken in with consideration as he slides his mouth, connected.

When the time comes, they fall back together, into sweaty sheets dirty of sex and cologne. He finds himself laying there memorized of the strands of hair falling on his forehead. It was quiet, most likely since it was dead in the night but the room still felt alive.

“Does that mean I can call you Hajime-chan?” Oikawa says randomly flipping over to fully meet Iwaizumi.

He kisses his cheek, sliding down to his hand. “Call me Hajime only when the time is right.” he winks at him, as Oikawa blows up throwing a pillow in his face.   
He’s laughing, their laughing together and he can’t help but not stare out his large windows opening up the whole world and thank his father for this.

*

The decision is on a whim, as his friends all crowd around a small table. Ukai’s bar is full of business tonight, lively with the music in the foreground. Oikawa moves around happily, chatting away. Kuroo challenging Hanamaki to a round of shots, while Tsukishima gives Iwaizumi the stink eye glancing at the same time to notify him with approved looks. They're all here, Iwaizumi’s friends are… interesting to say the least. Fiercely loyal, and he admires that. Having a lot to say about Iwaizumi, Tooru gets along with them perfectly.

After waiting for a table, he joins his friends with a pleasant grin. “Iwa-chan, can I get you another beer?” he asks pointing to his empty glass.

Iwaizumi smiles shaking his head. He looks casual, no tie or heavy expensive suit to protrude his wealth. Only a simple button up opened a few buttoned exposing the sleek skin he’d found yesterday. Oikawa understands he’s trying to limit himself. Making amends with his family, with friends the people he’s close with. Hearing and knowing all this makes him fall in love with him again.

“look,it’s lover boy.” one of them coos and Oikawa rolls his eyes.

“Got time to spare?” Iwaizumi asks, wrist playing with the watch attached him, but his eyes are on Oikawa.

Sliding into the booth, holding his hand, the secret between them. “I always have time for you Hajime,” he says, cheeks pink but content. A laugh goes around the table as his friends play around him.

He didn’t think it would end up like this. His hand pressed into Iwaizumi Hajime, the man whose face is against every billboard in New York. It’s quite funny how fate works. It seemed that it was only yesterday that Iwaizumi had stumbled in the bar. He’s found the place he belongs in, with the people he loves, as he gives one more glance to Iwaizumi.

With one more smile, he lets go. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ibreatheakaashi) for all my other content! stay updated and don't forget to comment! id love to hear your final thoughts!


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